"Can I ask you a favour?" I sound like a whining schoolboy.
"Naturalement."
"Any chance you could row me across to collect my dinghy afterwards? Only I left it over at Agnon's last night."
He wanted a break from Silvija for a while, so he'd insisted on bringing me back to Achilles, my boat. I named it when I bought it at a steal of a price from one of the sailing companies that ply their holiday trade in these waters. She needs a bit of work and the windows leak, so I've covered them with cling film. I really must get around to repairing them, if only to stop Phillippe giving me that stare every time he rows past.
"Mais oui, not a problem. I am going over to the taverna anyway. I promised to give Silvija a hand cleaning up after the little party."
Silvija is Agnon's long-suffering wife of five years. She comes from Romania. Romania and Albania, an interesting and often seismic combination. Camille and I potter twenty yards or so along the beach. She pulls her wooden dinghy effortlessly from the shingle into the water, making sure so as not to scratch the bottom. I wade out and climb in. Camille follows suit as soon as the dinghy is in deep enough water and begins rowing us towards her floating home. I feel a little underdressed, but Camille doesn't seem to mind and I'm already almost dry. Ahead of us smoke billows from their little chimney.
"Ah, Phillippe has started cooking I see," says Camille.
The couple have a small wood burning stove on board. Phillippe designed and built it himself. This keeps them warm and dry in the winter and allows them to cook without gas or electricity all year. They collect the wood they need and store it on their piece of land. Perfect set up.
About halfway out a voice calls out from the shore.
"Hi Roydon, hi Camille. Kalimera."
We both turn at the same moment. As we do so the balance of the small boat is disturbed, and it lurches to the right. I come close to my second swim of the morning and the clock hasn't even struck nine. Standing on the shore waving her arms in the air like a deranged giraffe is Lucy. She's literally jumping up and down.
"Keep rowing," I urge.
"That is not so kind," replies Camille with a hint of a smile.
"I'm sure you're right," I agree, "but I'm not in the mood for her right now. I love her to bits, but she's just so…. frantic."
"Possibly you are right, but I think we should see what she wants nonetheless."
"Ok, here goes," I sigh.
"Hi Lucy, what's up. Everything OK?"
This question, when asked of Lucy tends to open the floodgates. I wait for the tidal wave. Perhaps it's because she is between boyfriends again, but the norm is a long list of mundane challenges she faces. Normally the list ends with a request for assistance in some form or other.
"Not really," she replies, "Can I catch you later for a cup of coffee, only I need some help."
Here we go I think, what will it be today. Putting up a shelf, wiring a plug, emergency sailing trip to the vet in Lefkas?
"Alright," I silently curse myself as I commit. "I'll be at Billy's around noon. I need to buy a few things from Fotis in the supermarket anyway. You can buy me a coffee. What is it anyway?"
Lucy looks pained, even more than usual.
"It's Helen. She's been kidnapped."
Chapter Two
On reflection I guess I could have said something that would have conveyed more appropriate concern. But the idea that such a crime might have occurred on the sun blessed holiday island we all call home, struck me as ludicrous and I said so. More forcibly than intended. Perhaps I could have sugar coated things a bit more. Lucy pouted, dropped her shoulders, spun round, and muttered something inaudible as she stomped back up the path to the road.
"I think you might have upset her," suggests Camille.
"No shit Sherlock," I reply.
I'm running the risk of upsetting two of my friends in as many minutes which, even for me, was going some. Friends are not something I'm over endowed with these days. Fortunately, Camille is made of sterner stuff and the offer of breakfast is not rescinded. We come alongside Faith.
"Guess who I've brought for breakfast Phillippe."
Phillippe, bless him, does his best to appear enthused when he comes to see who the guest might be. He almost manages to keep the smile in place, as he gives Camille minute directions to avoid scratching either the dinghy or the side of the boat. However, there's no mistaking the withering scan he gives me up and down. I can't shake the notion that an untreated piece of sewage might have been more welcome on board.
When we go inside, he lights an incense stick whilst muttering something about a strange odour. Breakfast for me is three strong black coffees, but Phillippe and Camille tuck in heartily whilst chatting away to each other in French, involving me every so often in English. I recall that they also speak Spanish and Italian in addition to inexorably more Greek than I have picked up in the last ten years. The cooking smells mixed with the incense, nearly cause me to throw up, which really would make me popular, but thankfully my iron stomach holds.
An hour later, suitably revived by the caffeine; I accept Camille's lift to collect my own dinghy. After taking advantage of the shower block at Agnon's, I row back to Achilles, cigarette hanging from the corner of my mouth. A further two coffees and three roll ups later, sporting a fresh t-shirt and shorts, I make my way back to shore. I catch sight of Kitty who gives me one of her looks.
"The cupboard is bare at present, I'll bring you something tasty back from the village, I promise."
"I'm not holding my breath," she replies, "don't worry about me, I can take care of myself."
The path up from the bay to the road is steep, especially for someone like me who rarely takes unforced exercise. It used to be covered with trees and bushes but one day last spring these were bulldozed, and a rough track opened up. Shortly afterwards a "For Sale" sign the size of a house was put up but so far there have been no takers. If I had the necessary million and a half euros maybe I would join the long list of German and British ex-pats who are buying up most of the prime sites on the island. I'm a little short just now so I won't be putting a luxury villa here any time soon.
Though significantly out of breath, I can still admire the view from here over the new residential meditation and yoga centre that Belgian couple, Antoinette and Eric, are building, to the brilliant blue sea and the mountainous mainland beyond. Immediately below me is our bay. Faith and Achilles are anchored here, as they have been all winter. Now that Spring is with us, we have been joined by three or four other yachts and, God forbid, a motorboat or as we yachties call them, "Stinkpots." To my immediate right lies a sleek modern sailboat, luxurious with all mod cons. The chap on board seems okay though we haven't spoken all that much. From the flag on the back and his propensity for swimming nude and cooking sausages, I think he's German.
I turn my mind to Lucy. A little guilt is nudging me because I've upset her. Whilst she can be a bit of a pain at times, her heart, as they say, is in the right place. I don't want to fall out with her. I've burned too many bridges in the past. Despite being thirty years younger than me, sometimes after a few beers I think she may have a small soft spot for me, before sobriety and common-sense kick in. She's a tall girl, not overweight but not skinny either. She is English but has lived in Greece for ten years or so, first in Athens and then moving here four years ago to open her own business. Her first entrepreneurial brainwave was a spray tan salon, thinking the locals and ex-pats might want it in winter but, fortunately for Bank of Mum and Dad, thought better of it before signing the lease for the machines. Her alternative health salon has been a smart move, although I'm not sure she needs to change the colour of her hair so regularly even if she does use organic dye. She keeps threatening to give me