The Winter Folly (40 page)

‘Shall we join a guided tour?’ Teddie was asking, flicking through her guidebook while Paul stood silently beside them, staring at some distant point.

‘One has just gone into the main chapel,’ Delilah said. She felt drawn by the voice she had heard. Was it usual for a guide to have an accent like that? Were there many well-bred
English women on the island and acting as guides?
Don’t get carried away
, she told herself,
you’re hardly likely to walk straight into her first thing.

‘We don’t want a tour that’s already started,’ Teddie said. She gestured to a group assembling by the fortified door. ‘There’s one over there that’s
about to get going. We’ll join them, shall we?’

‘All right,’ Delilah said, looking back towards the main chapel. Surely the groups would overlap at some point. She felt as though she could still hear that voice ringing in her ears
and strained to hear it again, but the interior of the chapel had absorbed it entirely.

She tried to concentrate on the tour and on the marvels that the guide pointed out as they made their way round the monastery. She stared at the lavish Byzantine mosaics, the
frescoes, the icons and the altars of the chapels, and heard of the relics kept there and the holy men buried within the walls, but her attention was always on a distant group of people as she
tried to catch that voice again. It wasn’t until they had made a tour of the entire monastery and emerged back into the main courtyard that she heard it, but this time it was not speaking
English.

The musical lilt floated over the still air and Delilah turned to see the woman in the white dress, now free of her tour group, standing with her back to her across the courtyard. She was
speaking to a man in a long dark robe with a flowing grey beard and a black hat on his head. An orthodox priest, probably.

If I can just get around to see her
, Delilah thought,
I’ll be able to tell from her face, I’m sure of it.

‘Say.’ Teddie’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Do you want to go to the museum here? It costs six euros but it’s got old manuscripts and vestments and treasures
and stuff. I think it might be worth seeing. Paul’s keen. Shall we go and take a look?’

Delilah found it hard to believe that Paul was keen as he’d not yet expressed an opinion on anything and even now was staring into the far distance as usual. He hadn’t looked even
vaguely interested on their entire tour. ‘You go,’ she said. ‘I might just wander around for a while.’

‘It’s getting hot,’ Teddie remarked. ‘You don’t really wanna stay out in this, do you? It’ll be cool inside. Besides, they’re closing soon until this
afternoon. It’s your last chance.’

‘No . . . no.’ She was distracted by movement and saw the woman and the bearded man move off together, heading for a different part of the monastery. ‘You go, really.
I’ll see you back at the hotel later.’

‘Okay.’ Teddie shrugged. ‘If that’s what you want.’ She put her guidebook into her back pocket where it bulged hugely. ‘Come on, Paul. We’re gonna eat
down in the harbour tonight if you want to join us.’

‘That sounds good,’ Delilah said. ‘Shall we talk later? Bye for now.’ She turned and craned her neck to see where the guide had gone. A flash of white told her that the
woman had disappeared through a doorway towards the older part of the monastery. She walked quickly after her, leaving Teddie and Paul, and keeping her eye fixed on where she had seen her
disappear. At the doorway, she made to go inside but a man stepped forward from the gloom within to stop her. He was also in a long dark robe, holding up one hand and speaking in Greek.

‘Sorry,’ Delilah said, with a smile that she hoped was suitably charming. ‘I’m English. May I come inside?’

‘You cannot enter,’ the man said in strongly accented English. ‘This is the library. You must have permission to come in.’

‘I’d love to see the books,’ she said in a wheedling tone. ‘Can I just have a little peek? I’ve come all the way from England.’ She took a quick few steps
past him.

‘You must be a scholar,’ the man said sternly. ‘Scholars only.’

She knew that she didn’t look in the least like a scholar in her cotton skirt, hat and sunglasses, a guide to the monastery in her hand. She sighed. ‘Please?’

He shook his head and pointed to the door. ‘You must go out.’

Turning away, she moved slowly to the exit, knowing she could not persuade him. Despite her lingering there was no further sign of the woman and she was forced to return to the brightness of the
courtyard, annoyed at her stupidity in not making her move earlier. By being tentative, she had now lost her only chance to get a good look at the guide’s face.

But
, she told herself,
if that is Alexandra then it’s only a matter of time before I see her again.

She left the monastery, glad to be on her own, and returned to Chora by a different path. This time she could see down the island to the splendid views of the dazzling blue
harbour peppered with boats. She caught up with the tail end of a group of sightseers that led her to another small whitewashed monastery that she learned was the one built over the Cave of the
Apocalypse. There was no reason to miss the opportunity, so she went inside with the others and found herself in a low underground chamber richly decorated with painted icons that glowed with
layers of gilt. On the small wooden chairs, people sat praying and contemplating the holy spot, but she stayed only long enough to absorb the striking decoration and the curious warmth inside
before she continued on the path back down to Chora.

She arrived as the sultriest part of the day began, and the village felt as though it was tucking itself away inside the cool stone walls to rest from the heat until the worst was past. In the
hotel, it was so quiet she couldn’t find anyone to ask about the whereabouts of the post office but she decided that it was probably closed anyway, so she went to the courtyard restaurant for
bread, cheese and olives before returning to her room to sleep. It seemed the wisest course with the overpowering heat outside. She lay awake for a while, still amazed that she was so close to
Alexandra, perhaps had even heard her voice, and feeling as though she was on the brink of meeting a character from a story who had turned out to be real. The effect of the heat and the morning
walk took its course, and she slept. When she woke, it was after three o’clock and the temperature had subsided a little. After shaking off the doziness and refreshing herself with a long
drink of cold water, Delilah headed out to find the post office, which was just a few streets away, in one of the pretty cobbled squares lined with shops, many selling art, pottery and icons. It
was a small dark shop that also sold postcards and tourist mementoes and she picked up a few cards showing the monastery and the cave. A woman waited to take her money behind the counter. Delilah
said, ‘Excuse me – can you tell me where to find this address?’ and held out the piece of paper.

‘Yes, yes,’ the woman said, after scrutinising it for a moment. ‘I draw you map.’ Taking a pen and using the square as the starting point, she drew a simple and very
clear diagram of how to the reach the villa.

Delilah sat outside a cafe in the square staring at the map. The villa was not far away. A short walk from the heart of the village and she would be there. Now that she was so
close, she almost struggled to remember why she had come. Her life, her world, even John himself, seemed remarkably far away, all of it almost like a dream, while her reality was the warmth of this
market square, the iced water in front of her, the shot of bold colour against the white stone where flowers bloomed.

Does that mean
, she wondered,
that it’s easy to forget?

She had imagined Alex as a woman struggling to erase her memories but perhaps they had simply faded away as soon as her old life was out of sight. Would she, Delilah, be any different if her
life suddenly became this blue and white idyll, a slow and lazy existence on a holy island that seemed closer to the eleventh century than this one?

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so easy to storm into someone else’s life and demand answers to questions she barely understood. It could be outrageous arrogance to act as though she could
force a family’s past out and into a new and better future. She remembered Grey’s warning about thinking she could make everything right for everyone.

I probably do
, she thought.
What if it all goes seriously wrong?

She had a glimpse of a future where John was disgusted with her actions at tracking down his mother, and their life together came to an end in a morass of accusations, justifications and fury.
It would be terrible, heartbreaking.

But then she imagined returning to her morose husband and the monthly rollercoaster of hope and despair – if they even managed to have sex at all – and the certain knowledge that he
was pulling ever further away from her, leaving her to cope with life in the house alone. Her plans for the future would never be realised. She could never hope to change or tame the silence
inside. She’d be surrounded by all its sadness and mystery again.

That future was just as heartbreaking, in its way. She wouldn’t be able to stand it. A sudden glimpse of Ben flashed into her mind. She knew that if she went back to that life, she would
surely be unable to stop herself turning to him for comfort.

She stood up, determined on her course. She would get the answers that waited her at the Villa Artemis. It was the only way.

She went back to the hotel and managed to avoid Teddie and Paul. Another night she would have liked to have gone down to the harbour to find one of the restaurants strung with
lights, to have sat at a table overlooking the harbour and eaten grilled fish and drunk the local wine. But she would be leaving tomorrow night and had to seize her chance while she could.

It was early evening when she left the hotel with the map held tightly in her hand. She could sense the island coming back to life after the heat of the day. The buzzing of mopeds sounded like a
race of giant bees had awakened, and lights were already glowing out over the square and courtyards, the candles on the tables lit in readiness for the sun-reddened tourists looking for their
evening meal.

The route led out of the village on one of the narrow roads that widened once it was beyond the confines of the walls. She walked up it, observing the scraggy eucalyptus trees and straggly
heather that seemed to cover the rocky ground. Every now and then she passed large villas that faced out over the bay, some with many terraces and surrounded by rich foliage, some with silver
reflections from unseen swimming pools glittering on the white walls. Evidently rich people came here to spend their leisure time. She felt obscurely disappointed. She hadn’t expected
Alexandra to be living in luxury. What kind of penitential exile was that? But then the map showed that she should turn back on herself, following another narrower path up the hill, back towards
the monastery, the western side that looked away from the town, and she saw that she was heading towards some smaller houses tucked away at its base, like infant creatures nestling into the warmth
of their mother’s belly.

Then she saw a sign on the side of a white-painted wall where stone steps led up towards a square building on two storeys with terraces at each level. Above the house, part of the monastery rose
up into the cloudless sky, not like the heavy fortress that faced over the bay but a worn wall of sandy stone that turned to the topaz sea to the west. The sign was roughly painted with the words
‘Villa Artemis’.

She stopped and stared at it, putting out a finger to trace the letters. The wood was warm under her fingertip. So here she was. Gazing up at the house, she could see no signs of life. All was
still. What a very quiet place this was. Perhaps, after all, it was suitable for an exile, this holy island visited by monks and nuns and people wanting to experience its spiritual atmosphere. It
was a place of prayer, contemplation, and a quest for salvation.

A cat emerged from nowhere and rubbed its bony body against her bare legs, purring and wanting her attention. She looked down at it, wondering if it had fleas. Then she heard a noise above and a
door opened. A woman came out of the house and onto the terrace where she moved about slowly. Delilah froze, hoping she was out of sight beneath the villa’s wall. What was the woman doing?
There was the sound of pouring water. Plants were being given a drink as the cool of the evening descended.

Her heart was racing. She leaned against the warm stone of the wall, trying to gather her strength and courage. Did she dare? Did she?

If I go up there
, she told herself,
what will make her think I’ve come from home? I could be anybody. Anybody at all.

Quickly she thought of a story.
I’m lost.
No – that was stupid; she was just below the walls of the most famous landmark on the island. Besides, how lost could anyone be in
this place in the daylight? Or else she was looking for a good taverna – could this woman recommend one? No. She had it.
I need a glass of water.
She could fake dizziness, sickness.
That’s what she would do.

Before she could change her mind, Delilah started up the stone steps, already breathless and outraged at her own nerve, towards the house. The person above heard the slapping of her sandals on
the stone and looked over. Delilah saw a flash of blue headscarf and then it disappeared. When she reached the front door, she could see whoever it was had left the terrace and the door that led
inside was firmly shut.

She rapped firmly on the door. There was no reply and after a few minutes she knocked again more loudly. Still nothing.

You’re not getting away that easily
, she thought. Her fear began to harden into determination. She had come all this way. She was not going to leave without seeing Alexandra. She
rapped loudly again and called out, ‘Hello? Hello!’

She was about to see if there was a back way when the door opened, and the woman from the monastery stood there. Her face was old and lined and the hair tucked under the headscarf was grey, but
her blue eyes and the shape of her nose were unmistakeable from the photographs at home. She was looking into the face of Alexandra Stirling.