‘I thought something was missing.’
‘Oh come on Lucy, what are you going to have?’
I sighed. ‘What’s the choice?’
‘Umm…’ Mum peered at the menu, which was all in Greek.
‘I bet it’ll be fish, fish, fish or fish.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with fish.’
‘I loathe fish, as well you know.’
‘You used to love fish fingers.’
‘That was ages ago.’
‘I think we’ll have to go into the kitchen and choose,’ said Mum, after a minute or so. ‘They won’t mind, everyone does that in Greece.’
The kitchen was dark after the bright sunlight outside. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, and when they did, I found I was face to face with a glass-fronted fridge.
I was right, the choice was fish. There were loads of them, all shapes and sizes, staring back at me. This fish wasn’t cut up into neat white rectangles like it was back home. And it didn’t have batter or breadcrumbs on it. It had heads on, and tails on, and looked as if, ever so recently, it had been swimming around alive and well, unaware that the day’s swim was going to come to such a nasty end.
There was a large lady in a witch dress standing behind the fridge, grinning at us. A gold tooth gleamed in the darkness.
‘I don’t fancy anything if you don’t mind,’ I said with a grimace.
‘Oh Lucy. Don’t be such a wimp, darling, it looks simply delicious. It’s probably just come out of the sea.’
‘Can’t I have chips?’
‘Only chips? Well, if you must. But we didn’t have much to eat last night.’
‘Chips’ll be fine.’
So I had chips and a Coke and Mum had fish and some wine. We sat at a table in the shade not far from the water’s edge. I think the wine must’ve been pretty strong because after a glass or so, Mum kept going on about what a brilliant place it was. She came out with all this ‘unspoilt’ stuff again and droned on and on about how we were getting back to the ‘real Greece’ and how time stood still in this kind of place. It was all that ‘alternative lifestyle’ nonsense that Dad sometimes came out with. I reckon the olds had been brainwashed with it when they were young.
All I could see was that we were sitting on a grotty beach that had several centuries of discarded fishbones and rotting fish heads mixed in among the pebbles. And that there were feral-looking cats hanging around which seemed horribly mangy and possibly rabid. And that the sea looked weedy and oily and fishy and had bits floating in it …
‘Oh look at those children. It must be paradise for them here. It’s like going right back to nature…’ said Mum, absent-mindedly filling her glass again.
I looked. A couple of unhealthily chubby little boys were wading in the rust brown sea. They had a plastic bag with them and they were emptying it into the water a few metres out. A load of bloody-looking fish guts fell from the bag. As they did so, a shoal of tiny fish surrounded them and the water boiled around their legs as the younger fish eagerly devoured the remains of their elders. The boys squealed with delight and tried to catch them with their fingers.
‘Yeah, what’s that phrase? Nature raw in tooth and claw?’ I agreed.
The trek back up the steps to the taverna seemed to go on forever. By the time we reached the top, we were both hot and cross and headachy.
‘Bags first in the shower,’ I said.
‘Don’t be long then. I think I’m going to melt.’
I turned the shower on and nothing happened. When I tried to flush the loo it made a hollow cranking noise and no water came out.
‘That’s it,’ I said. ‘That’s the final straw. I’m not staying here any longer.’ I was near to tears.
‘Oh Lucy. Don’t tell me the water’s off.’
‘Try for yourself.’
I lay down on my bed as Mum tried a range of clanking and cranking, but she had no more luck than me.
‘See?’
She sat down on her bed. ‘Do you really hate it here?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Well, I suppose it is a bit primitive…’
‘Primitive! It’s positively Stone Age. I’m hot and I’ve got a headache and there isn’t even any water.’
‘Maybe we should have looked further.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘And I really wanted us to enjoy this holiday…’
‘So did I!’
‘I know that next year you’ll be off somewhere with your friends… It could be our last together…’
‘I know, I know…’
‘Listen. If you absolutely hate it here, we could move on…’
‘But you keep saying you really like it.’
‘Not if you’re not happy…’
‘Well, it is a bit cut off…’
‘I suppose I could get on a bus this afternoon and have a look round. There must be other places.’
‘Nowhere could be worse than this.’
‘Well, we could be nearer to a decent beach.’
‘Want me to come with you?’
‘No point in us both going out in this heat. You rest that headache, get a plaster on your blister. Have a sleep.’
‘Thanks Mum.’
It was cool in the room. The shutters had been closed all morning to keep the sun out. I lay back and shut my eyes. I heard Mum bustling around the room, collecting her things. As she went out through the door she said: ‘Oh, and Lucy – don’t go out in the sun again. Not till after four. It’s scorching. You’ll get burned.’
‘Mmmm. OK. Bye.’
I lay gazing into the semi-darkness, chasing the tiny squiggles you get in your eyes as they darted back and forth across the gloom. They’re stray cells apparently, being washed back and forth over the eye. I’m fascinated by all that stuff. Mum calls it gruesome. She’s not exactly scientific. I reckon her science education must’ve ended with the life-cycle of the frog. When I told her I wanted to be a vet she nearly freaked out. She claimed I’d got the whole idea from some series I’d seen on the telly and it would wear off. But it is what I want to do – really badly.
My head had stopped throbbing. I listened to the noises outside. The dredger must’ve knocked off for the day and I could now hear all the other sounds of the village. Hens somewhere not too far off. And a donkey braying in the distance – a long cascade of eeyores, like mad hysterical laughter. Then the soft sound of the wings of pigeons as they landed on the roof and started scrabbling and cooing.
I was starting to feel bored. What a waste of all that sunlight out there. I climbed off the bed and went to the door. It wasn’t that hot. Mum was just being over-protective, as usual.
My shorts were hanging on the balcony rail. I could at least try and get the tar off. There was a pump in the vineyard – maybe that worked. I took the shorts and some soap and went and cranked the handle. Sure enough,