Escape to Ikaria Read online

  He immediately got to his feet, offering me a handshake and a huge smile. It did nothing to soften my mood.

  ‘I’m Vassili, and please this is my wife Agathi, and my children, Christos, Xenia and Leftari.’

  ‘You speak good English, so you will understand that I am angry. You must stop running off with my children.’

  They looked at me in astonishment.

  Lysta didn’t back me up in my role of the angry father.

  ‘You should have left a note on the door. No one was at home so I went looking for you. Where were you, Dad?’ She told me she had got back with the shopping in under two hours and I should have been pleased with her. I felt slightly on the wrong foot.

  Agathi came forward. With a pleading look in her eyes, she said, ‘We are not a bad family. We saw Lysta on the road, that is all, and asked her to have lunch with us.’

  ‘Dad, I’ve made friends with Xenia. We’re the same age.’ What else could I do? I apologised, although it didn’t feel quite right after the anxiety they had put us through. But when they asked me to join them I could hardly refuse, and after a few minutes I relaxed and began to enjoy their company.

  Agathi had the strong features that many Greek women have: high cheekbones and dark eyes. She had a beautiful mouth and black, shoulder-length hair. She taught English, her second language, at the primary school in Aghios Kirikos, which reminded me that Lysta and I needed to get back to Ros. Such was the impression the whole family had made by then, I suggested we should all meet again soon and have a picnic on the beach.

  The hot springs in the village of Therma, a fifteen-minute walk the other side of Aghios Kirikos, had been known since ancient times. I knew of no other place on Ikaria that was promoted as a tourist attraction, with entrance fees and towels provided.

  Only local people knew that below Lefkada there were also thermal springs that bubbled up to the surface of the Aegean. A hidden, overgrown track through the low scrub of thyme and gnarled bushes that could have been made by goats led to a steep slope down to the rocky shore. This was no easy descent, with obstacles every few yards, such as tree roots, overhanging branches, and loose scree that made you lose your footing. Once by the sea you had to pick your way from rock to rock for a few hundred yards to a small promontory. There you would see the first evidence of the springs – a slight steam rising. Entering the water required great care, because the temperature varied dramatically and in places was scalding. Maria had bathed there for years, but not any longer, the trek now being too arduous for her. She might have been getting on, but her skin always had a healthy sheen. Whether it was because of the hot springs or all the olive oil that she also swore by I didn’t know.

  One morning I went down to the springs myself, not that I was seeking a miraculous cure. I set off early, when the day was cool, and even at my age it took some time to get there. Every step had to be taken with the utmost care, especially when leaping across a landscape of slippery boulders. If you were nimble enough to survive the hazards it was highly likely you would have the place to yourself. The fact that the location of the springs had remained a secret and they were so difficult to get to showed the Ikarians’ complete lack of interest in exploiting their island for tourism.

  But that morning when I eventually reached the springs, I found myself not alone but in the company of Icarus, who claimed to be ninety years old. He was frail and skeletal, with no more than a few strands of white hair and a suntan that you could tell would never fade. He had spent most of his life in the merchant navy, had seen the world and spoke good English. I couldn’t believe he’d walked here, and then I saw the rubber dinghy drifting nearby on a long rope.

  When I introduced myself and told him what I was doing on Ikaria he opened up about life on the island. I wanted to find out what kept him going. Surely at that age everything was a tremendous effort? I had never met someone so old, and with such enthusiasm for the things he still enjoyed.

  ‘The stillness of clear mornings, the sea air, to float in the Aegean.’

  ‘Is that all? Is that the secret of old age?’

  ‘Yes, although some say too that Ikarians have little stress in their lives because they don’t pursue material riches.’

  ‘And the hot springs, do they possess the healing qualities everybody claims?’

  ‘Well, look at me. If I stood up you could watch me bend down and touch my toes.’

  Which he did when we parted, and then with a single oar paddled away in the dinghy, ghost-like, as if he was disappearing back into ancient myth.

  On an island with a complete disregard for time, Sister Ulita had discovered a game that gave her a childish delight. Ironically it was to do with punctuality, because in the mornings I was never late. She would wait behind the monastery gate, counting down the seconds until I rang the bell, and as soon as I did she would pull it open with such ferocity that the birds in the courtyard flew into the trees, not returning until the reverberating metallic hum had faded away. I always pretended to be taken completely by surprise, which delighted her even more. She did it every morning, no matter whether it was me or Ros, then clapped her hands to chase away the solitary chicken that was always escaping from the run.

  Ros told me that Sister Ulita’s routine didn’t always follow the strict discipline of her holy orders when the children were at the monastery. She gave them lessons which required no words, showing them how to make yoghurt and cheese, which in anyone’s language is educational. Once Ros had milked the goats and poured the milk through a sieve into the jugs that had been set out for her in the kitchen, the only thing left to do was to tether the goats on a fresh spot of land in the shade of the olive trees. Then Sister Ulita’s divine obedience showed a little flexibility, usually in the form of a ball which she would hit into the air with a tennis racket, hoping Sam and Lysta would catch it. These games rarely lasted more than a few minutes before the ball disappeared over the monastery wall.

  This was all done in the hope of delaying their departure. It made me wonder what satisfaction the nun gained from living such a solitary life, cut off from the world, hidden away behind the monastery’s high walls and her impenetrable sunglasses, showing only a smile and those white teeth.

  I’d hardly been living in some remote rainforest, but when Lottie arrived at the taverna, looking worn out, dragging a heavy suitcase from the back of a farmer’s three-wheeled truck, it reminded me that life beyond Ikaria still existed. She had come from a world I had completely lost touch with, hence my curiosity, which she must have found quite off-putting. I had gleaned little news of what was happening on planet earth, not even who had won this year’s FA Cup.

  Lottie was Dutch, in her early twenties, wearing a short black sleeveless dress. Her long blonde hair swished from side to side as she walked. I think she thought I was the waiter showing her to a table.

  ‘I don’t work here,’ I said, sitting down with her.

  ‘You behave as though you do,’ she smiled. Like most of the Dutch she spoke perfect English, with that soft seductive burr that draws you to them.

  ‘Neither do I work for the Ikarian tourist board,’ I said ‘which doesn’t exist anyway. But welcome to Lefkada. I’m Nikko, if you want to call me by my Greek name. Let me find Maria for you.’

  ‘Can you get me an Amstel, an ice cold one, in a frozen glass? I haven’t slept for twenty-four hours and I need to revive myself.’

  ‘Of course. Do you want something to eat?’

  ‘What have they got?’

  ‘Squid and octopus,’ I said, hoping to tempt her, ‘beautifully cooked in olive oil, which by the way I caught myself.’

  ‘You’re a fisherman!’

  ‘Amongst other things: gardener, house builder, whatever comes along.’

  ‘I’ll just have the beer and a few olives.’

  I was hungry for a good conversation, starved these past months of a flow of words that I didn’t have to decipher. It was easy on the ear listening to her, desp
ite being surrounded by the incessant thrum of the cicadas.

  ‘Doesn’t that noise get on your nerves? Is it like that all the time?’

  ‘I promise you, in a couple of days you won’t notice it. Why have you come to Lefkada?’ I asked.

  ‘They told me in Aghios Kirikos there’s a good beach here where I can pitch a tent.’

  ‘How long will you stay?’

  ‘Who knows? Let’s see what happens,’ she said, watching Maria pour out a cold beer. Then, gradually tilting her glass, she swallowed the lot. ‘And what brings you here?’ So I told her about the vagaries of fate, arriving in Piraeus and getting on the first boat, which happened to be coming to Ikaria.

  For her it was running from the bitter experience of a broken heart, which I skipped over, not wanting to open wounds she was trying to heal. I wanted to know what was going on in the world.

  ‘All the same stuff: too many cars, pollution, wars, everyone living on the edge. Believe me, you are better off here,’ she said emphatically. ‘Look, my take on life isn’t that positive at the moment. I’m sure if you talk to someone else you’ll hear a completely different story.’

  And I did. Less than an hour later Gregory turned up at the taverna. A Canadian from Montreal, with a mass of blond curls and an expensive camera around his neck, he was outgoing and upbeat. He seemed a gregarious young man who said everything was groovy. I introduced him to Lottie.

  ‘Hey, didn’t I see you on the ferry last night, trying to balance some glasses of beer on a tray?’

  ‘Yes, that was me. It was fine until the boat suddenly rolled.’

  ‘I suppose it could have been worse,’ said Gregory, smiling.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, from what I saw, there were two priests and a woman involved.’

  ‘Yes, she was an opera singer,’ said Lottie regretfully. ‘Soaked, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It was quite a scene for a while,’ said Gregory enthusiastically.

  ‘It was embarrassing for me. She is singing tonight in Samos . . . I hope she has recovered.’

  Sitting in their company, it felt as if the summer season had begun. Visitors arriving. I was excited by the thought of it. It was only now I realised what stimulation new people bring to life on an island.

  It was late afternoon when I left Gregory and Lottie over their beers to join Ros and the children on the beach. I was about to take the path down from the road when Datsun Jim pulled up in front of me. He was panicking and could hardly get his words out. He took deep breaths in a cloud of dust. He spat, then blew his nose into that dirty handkerchief. It all seemed to be leading up to something pretty dramatic.

  ‘Giorgos,’ he said at last.

  ‘Yes, what about Giorgos? Has he brought me my money?’ I asked.

  ‘He is angry . . . very angry, about the house.’

  ‘I’m sure he is, but what has that got to do with me?’

  ‘It is the mess, and all the cement that is wasted.’

  Again I asked him what it had to do with me.

  ‘He is coming to the taverna tomorrow night.’

  ‘Good. At last I will be paid.’

  ‘You do not understand. He is angry.’

  ‘Yes I do, Jim. I understand he is angry, but with you, not with me.’

  We met Agathi and Vassili for the promised picnic. I knew Ros and Agathi would like each other, sitting on the beach, watching their children playing together. You could say they were both schoolteachers, Ros now taking her role so seriously that every evening she prepared Sam and Lysta’s lessons for the next day. The kitchen walls were gradually being covered by their school work, mostly Seth’s abstract watercolours that looked like the beginning of the universe.

  ‘Agathi is lovely; we have so much in common. And she’s going to give us a blackboard and chalk. It really has been a wonderful day.’ One of those great ironies, how everything can give way to its opposite. Suddenly the kidnappers had become our new best friends.

  ‘I’ve met some new friends as well. Why don’t you come to the taverna and meet them?’

  ‘Dad, can I ask you something?’ said Sam, wearing the deep, concentrated look that meant he was about to deliver one of life’s perplexing conundrums.

  ‘Do I need to sit down for it?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yes, I think you do.’

  We each pulled up a chair and sat on the terrace.

  ‘OK, let’s hear it.’

  ‘Why has Christos got a different willy to mine?’

  ‘Oh . . . that’s a good one. Well, I’m going to have to use a very long word.’

  ‘Shall I get the notebook I’m writing all my new words in?’

  ‘That’s a good idea.’

  When he returned, pencil poised, he looked across at me expectantly. ‘Tell me what it is.’

  So I slowly spelt out circumcision, which he wrote down in capital letters.

  ‘What does it mean?’

  Just as I was about to try to explain, Ros came out of the house and said, ‘Shall we go over to the taverna now?’

  ‘We’ll join you later,’ I replied. ‘I think we might be some time.’

  8

  The Arm Wrestler

  I told Ros I was going to sleep under the stars that night. I knew the exact spot, just above the house where the land rose high enough to be able to see the Aegean and, with my head propped up on my coat as a pillow, I could gaze at the sky. I had once spent a night on Salisbury Plain with an eccentric boffin with a Heath Robinson telescope who convinced me that it was only a matter of time before someone out there contacted us. I lost touch with him when he upped sticks and went to live on an uninhabited island off the Australian coast that he called World’s End. There isn’t anywhere bigger than space and I was hoping I might witness some cosmic activity, maybe even something more than a shooting star.

  When Sam got wind of what I was planning, he said he wanted to come too. I couldn’t say no; after all, I had already filled his head with the possibility that we were not alone in the universe. He wanted to bring his notebook and keep a record of everything we saw, and to have a picnic at midnight.

  He got more and more excited as darkness fell. I told him I wasn’t going until at least eleven o’clock, way past his bedtime, but he said if he fell asleep I was to wake him up. At half past nine he was still going strong so we went down to the taverna where Maria was welcoming two girls with rucksacks on their backs. A few people had been turning up in the past couple of weeks, but none had stayed more than a night or two, pitching their tents on the beach and then disappearing. I never really met them because they only came to the taverna to take water from the standpipe. They cooked food on the fires they lit on the beach and had their own scene going on down there. Only Gregory and Lottie came up and spent time at the taverna.

  I thought Maria was telling the newcomers where they would find this group of backpackers, but she called me over to meet them.

  ‘They are English,’ she said.

  The look a person greets you with shows so much, before a word is spoken. With shoulder-length dark brown hair these two could have been sisters, but they weren’t. They both shook my hand with a warmth that drew me in.

  ‘I’m Julia. I’m a Kiwi, actually,’ which you could tell immediately from her accent.

  ‘I’m Sarah, and I’m English.’

  ‘So am I. I’m Nick and this is my son, Sam.’

  ‘Hello. I am half Welsh and half English.’

  ‘Which half of you is English?’ asked Julia.

  ‘The top half, I think. In my head I support Spurs, don’t I, Dad?’

  They’d just arrived from Naxos and didn’t know how long they would stay. In their late teens or early twenties, they were well tanned, their packs sun-bleached and their sandals dusty; clearly they’d been in the islands for a while. Maria had already offered them a room in the house above the taverna, where she hung her cheeses in muslin bags.

  ‘We’ll mee
t properly tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Tonight Sam and I are sleeping under the stars.’

  It didn’t turn out to be the night I had been hoping for, silently contemplating the starry heavens. Not that Sam got bored. In fact, his imagination took over and within the first half an hour he had already spotted three UFOs, one of which was on fire and had crashed into the sea.

  ‘There, Dad, over there! You missed it again!’

  He did eventually fall asleep on a sleeping bag and I pulled another one over him. It was a warm, moonless night, all the better for seeing the stars. Nearby I could hear wild goats bleating as they munched the scrub. But by one o’clock I was done with stargazing; beautiful as the night sky might be, there wasn’t a lot going on. I knew I wouldn’t fall asleep. For a start, I couldn’t get comfortable; the ground was hard and uneven. Then I felt hungry and decided to eat our picnic, bread and cheese, which I washed down with an Amstel.

  After that I made my way back to the house, carrying Sam asleep in my arms, where I could enjoy the rest of the night tucked up next to Ros. In the morning, when he woke to find himself mysteriously back in his own bed, Sam shook me awake, wondering what had happened. It was as if the intervening hours had not existed, and he continued the conversation we were having before he fell asleep.

  ‘Dad, if we’re not alone and the aliens don’t speak English . . .’

  ‘Yes, what’s your point?’ I said, trying to wake myself up.

  ‘What are we going to say to each other?’

  ‘I think that’s the first question you’ve asked that no one has the answer to.’

  ‘ “Can we be friends?” is what I’d say.’

  ‘That’s a good first line.’

  I spent hours at the monastery, usually on my own, digging the soil under a blazing sun. Often I’d take off my T-shirt and work half naked, but only when I was sure Sister Ulita wasn’t around. In the same way, I’d sometimes smoke a quiet cigarette, one eye on the watch for her. Although I worked hard and deserved breaks, I wasn’t sure whether smoking in the monastery grounds contravened any of her laws.