The Santorini Summer Read online

  The Santorini Summer

  Christine Shaw

  ©Christine Shaw

  Christine Shaw has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  This edition was published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter One

  The pilot brings the plane in fast, and brakes hard, because the runway at Monolithos is very short, and the wheels screech against the hot tarmac.

  ‘Okay, Nan?’ queries Alexa anxiously, taking my hand.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, ‘just a little tired.’

  I’m not afraid of flying, take-off or landing. In fact, I’m a Frequent Flyer. No, the tears in my eyes and my white knuckles have another cause. I first arrived on Santorini by boat in 1956; since then, every time I set foot on the island I have to work hard to keep my emotions in check.

  The heat hits us as we step out of the plane, and the wind pulls at our clothes. Alexa takes a deep breath.

  ‘Sun,’ she sighs, tilting her face up.

  I know exactly what she means.

  The hire car is a smart little Peugeot.

  ‘I’ll drive, shall I?’ Alexa says. ‘You know the way, so it’s best if you navigate.’

  ‘Have you ever changed gear with your right hand before?’ I ask, nervously, forgetting that my granddaughter has driven on the right-hand side of the road in Italy since she was seventeen.

  ‘Of course I have. And I know to drive on the right.’

  ‘The confidence of the young,’ I murmur, remembering another young woman, long ago, who once clambered out of a fishing boat and fearlessly placed her hand in that of the young man who waited for her on the quay.

  Alexa sets off without a qualm, unconcerned by the macho driving style of the Greeks. I still find myself catching my breath when we are overtaken on bends or draw parallel with vehicles from the opposite direction who are taking more than their fair share of the road.

  ‘It gets no better,’ I murmur. ‘They’re still dreadful drivers.’

  Alexa laughs. ‘This is fun, Nan. I love these mountain roads.’

  We climb up towards Fira, getting sandwiched between the tourists’ coaches and the local buses and Alexa catches her first sight of the caldera.

  ‘Wow! Oh, that’s stunning!’

  It still has that effect on me, too, after all these years. Nea Kameni, the youngest volcanic cone, rises out of the turquoise sea on our left, dwarfing the older Palia Kameni. Behind the cone lies the island of Thirassia. Two cruise ships are anchored in the bay and from them, small craft ply their way to the port and its cable cars. In places you can clearly see the layers of lava in the crater edge below the town, which perches precariously on the top of the crater’s lip and cascades down its side. On our right lies the misty outline of the island of Anafi.

  ‘You said it was spectacular, but I didn’t know it would be so beautiful.’

  ‘Wait until you see the views from Oia and Imerovigli, but for now, please keep your eyes on the road,’ I beg, only half joking.

  We fight through the traffic in the capital, and then on and up, past Firostephani,

  past the outskirts of Imerovigli and further north toward Oia.

  ‘When you find somewhere safe, pull over and we’ll look at the view.’

  I am enjoying her reaction, remembering my first sighting of these views, feeling again all the awe and amazement I felt then. We stop where the road is slightly less dangerous, leave the engine running and step out into the sparklingly clear air.

  ‘Oh my god, Nan. This is fantastic. You can see all around the tip of Santorini. Look at all those islands.’

  ‘You’re only seeing a fraction of the Cyclades group. We’ll stay at Oia tonight and tomorrow I’ll show you Fira and the Museum.’

  ‘Oh, Nan,’ she breathes. ‘Why haven’t I been to Greece before?’

  ‘Because your mother is Italian,’ I say, drily.

  I wish I could find it in me to love my daughter-in-law. Cecilia is not stupid, unkind or ugly. She has been a good mother to Peter and Alexa and a good wife to Christopher. But I never got over my disappointment that she is Italian. Heaven knows, I introduced him to some lovely Greek girls. I took him with me to Greece at every opportunity, and we had Greek students staying at the house most years. He spoke Greek well enough to be able to conduct a courtship in that language, if necessary. But no, he meets an Italian girl while working in a restaurant one summer vacation, and that was that.

  I, of all women, should understand, of course. I had my own coup de foudre, and nothing and no-one could have dissuaded me from following my heart. Christopher loves Cecilia with all his heart and I wish I could too. But her daughter, Alexa, is a different matter. Alexa has inherited her grandparents’ love of history, and now that she has seen Santorini I think I may be able to nurture in her the love of all things Greek, which I failed to rouse in Christopher.

  I should have preferred to stay in one of the discreet little hotels in Imerovigli, which is so peaceful, but Alexa is nineteen and, although she is accompanying me at her own request, I feel it would be unfair to deprive her of the glamour of Oia, so I have booked us into a hotel there. Not one of the sugar-cube houses tumbling down the caldera, however. My legs are too old, now, to be negotiating all those steps every day. On the Internet I found a small but elegant hotel, which had been created from one of the beautiful Captain’s Houses just back from the caldera edge. It has retained a slightly faded exterior, keeping it true to its fellows, but inside it is all chic comfort, and its terrace has wonderful views over the sea. Alexa is thrilled.

  ‘Oh, Nan, this is fabulous. Wicked,’ she grins.

  She’s heard me grumble about modern usage often enough to know what I feel about such expressions. But she hugs me, letting me know that she is teasing.

  ‘I just can’t wait to get into that pool. Do you mind if I have a quick swim?’

  ‘I’ll join you,’ I answer, determined to show her from the start that, although I object to slang, I’m not decrepit yet.

  I need a short time to adjust to my feelings, and a swim, while seeming to be sociable, will give me an opportunity to be alone with my memories. No-one expects you to hold a conversation while swimming lengths. So, with relief, I sink into the warm water and close my eyes, allowing myself to remember.

  It constantly amazes me that the truly memorable moments in life can be recalled as vividly as if watching a video recording, the intervening years having no effect upon the detail. The scents, colours, textures and emotions of fifty-one years ago are as graphic to me now as they were then. My first sight of Christos, the first time we touched, my first taste of Assyrtico, my first sunset at Oia; sensations and feelings come back to me now at will, pain and sweetness in equal amounts.

  ‘Right, that’s enough, I think. I’m going for a shower now, Nan. I’m starving.’

  Alexa brings me back to the present. I resent her interruption, resent the necessity for being “normal”, for having to talk, to being old and sensible. But it doesn’t last. I climb out, pick up the towel and return to my room. It’s not Alexa’s fault. She has no idea that her old Nan was time-travelling, back to the days when she was young and lovely and desired. Back to the time when she held a precious, amazing gift, for just a short time, in her arms.

  Showered and changed, we decide to stay in the hotel for dinner tonight. I’m too tired, too emotional to want to search the all too familiar streets for a suitable restaurant. I have made a
n effort, though, as I always do. I am wearing a smart dress and jewellery, and my hair is hanging artfully around my made up face. Standards. Alexa, too, has dressed appropriately. Unlike many of her contemporaries, she understands about “dressing for dinner”. That’s not to say she looks stuffy or out-of-date. Her top is low-cut, her skirt short and close-fitting, as is the fashion, her hair is freshly washed and beautifully styled, make-up subtle but effective. She wears gold hoops in her ears, her birthday watch on her left wrist and a slim gold bracelet on her right. She is gorgeous, and the waiter is smitten. She, little minx, affects a demure demeanour: I am having dinner with my grandmother, and am not aware of the admiring looks you are giving me. Nevertheless, we are most attentively served.

  Both tired after our journey, we don’t linger over coffee for long.

  ‘Night, Gran. Thank you for bringing me to this lovely place.’

  She kisses me and I give her a hug in return. Grandmothers should not have favourite grandchildren, but I feel so much closer to Alexa than to Peter.

  Although tired, I find it hard to sleep. Memories saturate my mind like a never-ending waterfall and I’m helpless to stop them. I see myself as I was then, a young woman in love, full of joy and optimism, waiting on the beach for the Ariadne to sail into the bay. Christos, tall, tanned and slender, every inch a glorious Minoan youth, waving to me from the deck. Such a short time we had.

  *

  Breakfast is served on the terrace where the sunlight is already so bright and strong that we wear our sunglasses for a purpose and not just for effect. The orange juice is freshly squeezed (bringing to my mind the over-sweet orange squash we were served in Crete all those years ago – orange trees all around and they gave us orange squash!) the croissants warm and the coffee just so. I feel content and at home.

  So many years in the sun have made me un-English now. I crave the feeling of sunlight on my skin. It’s not just being warm. Central heating can do that for you, but my skin and my psyche seem to know the difference. It’s not the same sense of well-being I get from being in the sun. I know all about melanoma, and have been reasonably sensible my whole life, but at my age why should I deprive myself of something so comforting, so right, so much part of my primitive self?

  I explain my plan for the day. I will show Alexa the route back to Fira, where to drop me for the Conference Centre, where to park for the museum. We will enjoy the sights of the capital, window-shop at the town’s infamous jewellery stores, then return to Oia in time for the sunset, find a restaurant and enjoy an evening promenade. Alexa is agreeably content. She seems to have been instantly smitten by the island, and is already attuned to its rhythms.

  We take the road back to Fira.

  ‘The Conference Centre is not very accessible by car, so you could drop me off just about here tomorrow, and I will walk to it. Now, if we are lucky we might be able to find a parking space near the cathedral, which will be perfect.’

  Luck is on our side, and I am spared the steep walk up to the Museum of Prehistoric Thera, which Alexa wishes to visit tomorrow. She notes the opening hours and fee.

  ‘It’s very modern! I thought it would be a dusty old place.’

  ‘It was opened in 2000. You’ll find it houses many of the artefacts they found at Acrotiri because that site has had to be closed to visitors.’

  I explain the tragedy which happened in 2005 when a protective canopy over the site collapsed, killing one tourist and injuring seven more. A new canopy was being built.

  ‘With luck it may be open again next year. You really ought to see the discoveries

  there in situ.’

  ‘Oh, I shall definitely come back. I’d like to go to Crete, too. There’s a plane from Santorini, isn’t there?’

  Luxury is so much the norm for this generation. ‘Yes, but you can also take a hydrofoil, or a slower ferry, from the new port at Athenios.’

  We have started to walk the old, and now pedestrianised, path along the top of the caldera, with jewellers’ shops everywhere we look.

  ‘It’s amazing. How do they all stay in business?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I certainly haven’t been much of a customer.’

  No, but there was a jeweller’s shop in Oia, where we bought a ring, all those years ago. I glance at my right hand and polish the ring against my skirt.

  ‘They like their bling, don’t they? This stuff isn’t exactly subtle.’

  I point out that amongst the gaudy glitter there are some simple, very beautiful pieces. Many are modern interpretations of ancient Greek designs. Like mine.

  We walk on until we find ourselves in Fira’s area of clothes shops. The shops themselves are small, dark and cavernous, but samples of wares hang on plastic coat hangers surrounding the doors and on the outside walls.

  ‘Oh, wow! Nan, look at these.’

  Alexa has found a shop where dresses and tops, in simple, very white cotton, hang outside. The designs are modern versions of Greek tunics, rather beautiful, and quite cheap.

  ‘Oh, I’m going to have to do a little shopping here,’ Alexa says.

  I am reminded of another shopping trip, many years ago, on Crete, when Maureen Jarvis and I ventured timidly into Heraklion to find clothes better suited to the climate than those we had brought with us. There’s no timidity about Alexa. She picks out several outfits and goes into a changing room. I decide to wait outside and watch the tourists go by.

  One of the big cruise ships has obviously off-loaded its passengers recently. There

  are some very well-dressed people peering into the jewellery shops. Not Americans, I judge. Too elegant for Americans. Italians, probably, or Germans? Yes, Germans. I wonder, not for the first time, how it is that so many continental women seem to be born with a knowledge of how to dress, while so few English women are. It took me years of travel, observation and shopping before I found my style.

  Alexa emerges with a big smile, clutching several plastic bags. We walk on towards the cable car station, pausing frequently to look at the views. We can see the cruise ship far below us in the bay, decked in bunting. I point out the donkey steps.

  ‘When I first arrived on Santorini, I came on a boat which docked here. The port at Athenios hadn’t been constructed then. There was no cable car either. That was built quite recently, as a result of a donation by a wealthy Santorinian family. We had to ride on donkeys and they brought us up all those steps. There are more than six hundred of them. Steps, not donkeys. Some tourists still prefer the donkeys, and I understand it’s a profitable trade.’

  The poor beasts stand patiently in a queue, flicking their ears at the flies, while the donkey master harangues passers-by, hawking for custom.

  ‘But it’s so steep. Six hundred steps! Those poor donkeys.’

  We walk as far as the Conference Centre, and I show Alexa the courtyard.

  ‘Do you think you can find your way here tomorrow? We usually finish about four. You could meet me and we could have tea together.’

  We agree that plan, and turn to make our way back towards the car. Suddenly, we are outside Nikolas’s Taverna. It is almost midday, early for lunch, but if you’re not early at Nikolas’s you don’t get a table.

  ‘Let’s have lunch here.’

  Alexa looks perplexed. ‘Here, Nan?’

  There is no terrace, no sea view.

  ‘It’s the best food in Fira. And because we’re early we won’t have to queue for a table.’

  It’s still as dim and dusty as I remember. It takes a moment for our eyes to adjust. A man about my age comes forwards to show us to a table. Could he have been here all those years ago? Could he have been our waiter? I wave away the proffered menu.

  ‘We will have a Greek salad and dolmades, please. And do you have any Assyrtico?’

  He bows. ‘Of course, Madam.’

  ‘Then we shall have a glass each, please.’

  Alexa is slightly scandalised. ‘Wine, Nan? At lunchtime?’

  ‘They serve only th
e best Assyrtico here, and you should try it. Someone once told me Greek wine was very poor, but Assyrtico, served ice-cold, is delicious. It is only found here in Santorini.’

  I explain the unique method of grape cultivation they use on the island because of the lack of rain: the training of the vine into a basket-shape to minimise wind damage and ensure that every drop of moisture from rain or dew is kept close to the plant. ‘It is amazing that they manage to produce so much wine in these conditions, so we mustn’t grumble about the price.’

  ‘Is it very expensive then?’

  ‘Even here, at Nikolas’s, which is renowned for its good value.’

  ‘Is this a favourite place for you?’

  ‘I haven’t been here for many years. But nothing has changed.’

  I’m seized by memories. Christos choosing a bottle of Assyrtico to demonstrate the quality of this little known wine, the waiter pouring it with great ceremony and waiting for us to proclaim our satisfaction.

  Suddenly, I take Alexa’s hand. ‘Is there someone special, Alexa? Someone you’d follow anywhere?’

  My passionate outburst has startled her.

  ‘No, Nan. All the men I know are either NBDs or EBD.’

  ‘You’ll have to explain.’

  ‘Nice but Dim, or Exciting but Dangerous.’

  ‘Ah. You must wait for someone who is nice and exciting. They do exist, although rare. And when you meet him, you must treasure him. For you may not meet two in your lifetime.’ And you may not have long to be together.

  She is touched, and asks gently. ‘Is that why you never married again, Nan? After my grandfather died?’

  Married again? She doesn’t know. How astonishing.

  ‘I have never been married, Alexa. What did your father tell you about your

  grandfather?’

  She looks bewildered. ‘He told us that his father died before he was born. But that was all.’

  ‘But I have never been Mrs. Didn’t you wonder about that?’

  ‘I’ve only known you as Professor Carter.’