Authors: Cath Staincliffe
How long were we going to be stuck there? My dreams of lunch in some small taverna followed by a swim and sex in the shade of a beachside eucalyptus tree shrivelled as the minutes ticked by. The
sun was high and fierce now. There was no land anywhere in sight, no rocks, no other vessels, no lighthouse or buoys.
The crewman emerged, wiping oil from his hands onto a rag, and another noisy debate erupted with several of the passengers chipping in. After a few minutes of this the crewman spat over the side
of the deck and lit a cigarette. The captain and a young lad, who I guessed was his son, began to lower a dinghy into the water. The crewman climbed into it and, after a few attempts, started the
outboard motor. Most of the passengers retreated to the shade in the lounge area in the middle of the boat.
‘He’s going for help,’ I said to Neil. ‘Will he go to Piraeus?’
‘Think so – there’s nowhere nearer.’
I sat back down and closed my eyes, my face tilted at the sun. I savoured the heat. I could feel myself sliding into sleep, but struggled awake, aware of the hard iron struts on the bench biting
into the bones of my back. ‘I’m so tired,’ I murmured to Neil.
‘We could go over there.’ He gestured to a corner under the stairs. It was in the shade and dry. There’d just be room to lie down. We left our rucksacks where they were and
moved over.
We lay side by side, facing each other. The floor was hard; my hip bone soon ached. I used a hand to cushion my ear. ‘I wish I could teleport.’
Neil smiled.
‘Click my fingers and we’d be in our room.’
‘With a very cold beer.’ His T-shirt was crumpled from the journey, his chin dusted with stubble.
A picture of us making love formed in my mind: Neil prone on white sheets, me riding him, his gaze blurred with desire. ‘Touch me,’ I whispered.
His eyes danced. He brought his face close to mine, I tilted my body towards him – I had my back to the few passengers on deck and hoped the run of the stairs and my position would shield
them from seeing anything untoward.
He touched my lips with his, moved his arm slowly, brushing my nipple with his knuckles. If anyone was peering at us they would surely see my buttocks tighten and my back stiffen. Neil responded
to my intake of breath. He kissed me again and shifted, trailing his hand down my body till it rested between my legs. My cheesecloth skirt was flimsy, my underwear close-fitting and I could feel
everything as he made tiny circling motions with his thumb. The proximity of other people gave an added edge to my excitement. After only seconds I came, the sweet release rippling down my thighs
and up into my throat, flooding me with heat. I tensed my muscles hard so I wouldn’t flail about and managed not to cry out.
Opening my eyes, I stared at Neil. His face was flushed and sultry. I ran my tongue between his lips while I felt for his crotch and found the smooth curve of his penis, thick against his jeans.
He stayed my hand. ‘Later,’ he whispered. I smiled. And closed my eyes.
The return of the dinghy woke me. I’d no idea how long I’d slept but my bum was numb and I’d pins and needles in my arm.
Whatever spare part the man had brought back did the trick and we were soon roaring and clanking our way onwards. By the time the island came into view, night was falling and a warm breeze came
up, riffling the water and whipping our hair about.
The harbour was small. Coloured lights ran along the quayside in front of a row of tavernas. On dry land, we walked along the front, catching sight of shoals of fish close by, their scales
flashing iridescent when the light spilled onto them. The smell of barbecued meat and fish and onions made my mouth water.
At the end of the drag the road forked; the right-hand turning led uphill and the other circled the bay. A few streetlights illuminated the buildings, many with boards advertising rooms.
We’d started along the beach road when a voice called to us; ‘Room? Room?’ The woman was a few doors down and beckoned us closer. We reached the whitewashed block as she laid down
her hose. The place was festooned with geraniums in oil cans and she had been watering them, the aroma of damp earth and vegetation strong. I caught the whine of a mosquito close to my ear.
The room was one of four on the first floor, overlooking the bay. With a location like that we’d have said yes to a cardboard box. It was clean and simple. Very simple. Bed, two rickety
wooden chairs and a small table. A wardrobe that smelt of wax and contained heavy blankets. An ancient fridge, no fan, no kettle. Shower and toilet. Shuttered doors led on to the small balcony. We
thanked the woman and asked the daily rate. It was reasonable. We asked her if she needed our passports and she shrugged. We weren’t going anywhere. ‘
Kalispera
.’ She left
us and Neil shut the door. We grinned at each other in excitement and relief.
The bed, in a dark wooden frame, squealed as I sat back on it and eased off my rucksack. I used the bathroom; the water stuttered out of the tap as though it hadn’t been used for a while.
I’d caught the sun already, my nose and forehead bright. While Neil had a wash, I went out on to the balcony. The sea was close: I could hear the crashing sound of waves and just make out the
water’s edge.
Neil came out of the bathroom.
‘I’m ravenous,’ I told him, as I walked back in. He switched the light off. It was very dark. He cupped his hand round my neck and then walked me back until we reached the
wall. The plaster was cool on my arms. His breathing, harsh and eager, mingled with the noise of the surf outside. He kissed me and then he fucked me, gripping the fabric of my skirt in bunches at
my hips, his jeans puddled round his feet. I was ridiculously, sentimentally happy. I must remember this, I told myself, whatever happens. I must remember. He gasped when he came.
‘Now take me out and feed me,’ I whispered.
‘Okay.’ He kissed the top of my head. ‘Then I’ll fuck you again.’
‘Promise?’
My solicitor, Ms Gleason, is here. She reminds me what the procedure will be in court today, what is likely to happen. It’s hard to concentrate. Several times I find
I’m agreeing with her and have no idea what she has been saying. It reminds me of a dream I have – they’re quite common, most people dream something similar. In my version I am on
stage and the curtain is about to go up and I have forgotten to learn my lines. I don’t even know what the play is but I have a very big part and there is no time to find my script. It feels
exactly like that as we wait for the usher to call us. And I know there’s no waking up from it.
T
he weeks of our Greek idyll passed in a daze of cheap local wine, fresh food, hot sun and sex. We were both constantly aroused. I was on the pill
so we had no need of condoms. Those happy days before AIDS came stalking.
We travelled to Crete and went to Knossos, King Minos’s palace; Neil told me all about the legend of the Minotaur. The site was vast, impressive, but what captivated me was the frieze of
the dolphins, the vibrant colour, the energy in it, and the mosaic floors made of thousands of tiny tesserae, I loved the sophistication and elegance of the images, the harmony of composition.
We sailed to Rhodes, entering the harbour where the Colossus once stood. On the island of Kos we got the bus up to the Asclepeion, the first hospital in the world, built on wooded terraces. The
place had an atmosphere of peace and tranquillity that not even the clusters of tourists could disrupt. Down in Kos town we sat beneath the plane tree where Hippocrates was said to have taught his
principles of healing. Neil filled my head with stories of Greek gods and monsters and heroes. I came to share his fascination with the myths and legends.
Between our excursions to ancient sites we would walk up into the hills where the air was thick with the scent of pine resin and sizzled with the chirrups of crickets and the hum of bees. He
would put his hand round the nape of my neck, a gesture that had surprised me at first but by then had become familiar, comforting. He would catch my neck and pull me close for a kiss or hold me
like that as we strolled along. I was a head shorter than him.
‘Deborah.’ He’d stop me, circle my waist with his arm and steer me to a tree, the place dappled with shade and insects flittering in the golden pools of light. To the sound of
cowbells in the distance, he would make love to me. His passion for me, his appetite, fed mine and the lust showed no signs of abating. On the beach, reading, swimming, roasting in the heat that
softened my muscles and darkened my skin, my thoughts turned repeatedly to sex. Remembering what we had just done and what we might do next. Soon I would turn to him and whisper filthy words and
sweet entreaties, teasing him until one or other of us caved in, stood, hand shading our eyes, and said, ‘Let’s go back for a bit.’
Neil had been dead for sixteen days and we still hadn’t been able to make the funeral arrangements because the coroner’s office hadn’t released the body. The
whole country baked in a heatwave. I barely slept, barely ate, close to nausea much of the time. But the warm nights meant I could roam about the house or my workshop and wait for sunrise.
I’m an interior designer; my workshop is a converted double garage at the side of the garden. Most of the work I did myself: insulating the roof, dry-lining the walls and laying the floor,
though I got contractors in to sort out the plumbing and electricity. I’ve a free-standing stove at one end that heats the place perfectly in winter.
The part nearest to the drive is an office and meeting area. Clients occasionally come to the workshop to check me out or go over some ideas. The rest of the space is for practical work, drawing
table and plans chest, a messy area where I can experiment with paint and other materials: cork, plastics, ceramics. There are shelves lined with reference books and folders stuffed full of
research. Some of the books I’ve had since university; others I acquired for particular projects, like the huge volume of nursery rhymes that I return to again and again when I’m
considering children’s rooms, or the
Gardens of Egypt
tome I’d bought when working for a couple who’d met at the Pyramids and wanted an outdoor room with the flavour of the
Nile.
The length of the workshop that looks out on to the garden is all sliding glass doors, which gives me the natural light I need. There are plain hessian curtains for days when I want to shut out
the sun’s glare. I set it up the year I launched the business. I’d spent fourteen years working for a big design agency, mainly on corporate contracts: hotel chains and supermarkets. It
involved more work away from home than I liked and less variety. I didn’t get much holiday, and although Neil’s teaching job meant he was available to look after the children in the
school holidays, I wanted more flexibility.
It was a risk going self-employed but I knew if I crashed and burned we’d still have Neil’s salary. We wouldn’t starve. Accepting that productivity would come ahead of
creativity until I’d established a reputation, I said yes to all comers. As it was, I struck lucky. One of the clients I’d worked with at the agency had heard I was going solo and
recommended me to his boss, who had just won the contract for a new community hospital on the outskirts of Manchester. It involved me designing everything from the colour-coded seats in reception
areas to the napkins for the meals service and the pictures on the walls. Eighteen months’ work. After that I could pick and choose, and I built a portfolio of very different projects: hair
salon, fusion restaurant, sixth-form college, as well as domestic jobs, refurbishments, loft conversions and the like.
So, sixteen days after his death and I’d spent the early hours in my workshop, awake but eyes closed to rest them, my mind lurching about like a drunk on a dance floor. Avoiding the
quicksands of sleep.
At seven I went into the kitchen and made a cup of tea. Adam had stayed with friends, or so he said, but Sophie came down, got her lunch ready and left for school. She was very quiet and
resisted my attempt to make conversation, returning only shrugs or monosyllables. This wasn’t like Sophie but perhaps the silence gave her solace. In the aftermath of Neil’s death
someone had mentioned bereavement counselling to me: they offered it for children nowadays. If Sophie couldn’t talk to me about her dad then perhaps she’d appreciate doing so with
someone else.
I thought back to how my own mother had handled it when my dad drowned. Not very well. I was nine. We were on holiday, staying in an apartment in Mumbles on the Gower Peninsula. She sat me and
my brother Martin down and told us in very simple terms what had happened: Daddy was missing. He’d been for a swim and must have got out of his depth. He wasn’t a particularly strong
swimmer and might have misjudged the tides or the current. He had left his clothes on the beach. I imagined them neatly folded, the grey and yellow check poplin shirt, grey shorts, covered with the
striped blue towel. His watch in the pocket of his shorts. They recovered his body eight days later. Martin got his watch. I didn’t get anything.
Once I had children of my own, every seaside holiday brought a moment of intense anxiety that rose like bile, then a falling sensation, a rush back to the numb panic of waiting for news while my
mother spoke to strange men in hushed tones. The earth sways. I am flirting with disaster, I am tempting Fate, bringing myself, my children here, a sacrifice to the ocean. Neil had told me about
Scylla and Charybdis when we were in Greece, the two monsters that sat either side of a narrow strait. If sailors managed to avoid the sucking whirlpool of Charybdis they sailed too close to the
grotesque Scylla with her six heads, each with three rows of teeth, her loins girded by dog’s heads. Scylla would drown and devour her captives. I imagined my father struggling against the
pool of Charybdis, being pulled deeper and deeper, the water closing over his head, his limbs burning, heavy, feeble. Or Scylla, sated, cradling him in her loose embrace. Dad’s bones clanking
softly in the slow current, crabs in his eyes.