a couple of bottles of wine. Or there’s mineral water if you want something non-alcoholic. That’s probably safer than the tap water.”
“Mineral water’ll be fine. I feel quite parched.”
“Yes, everyone gets dehydrated in this heat. You must make sure you keep up your fluid intake. Would you like me to get you a glass of mineral water now?” asked Ginnie, suddenly solicitous.
“No, no, I’ll manage.”
“Right. As I say, it’ll be in the fridge. Now, what else should I tell you…? The minimarket opens at nine in the morning, and fresh bread’s delivered there round nine thirty. Spiro’ll change travellers’ cheques, or you can do them at the Hotel Nausica – though Spiro’s rate tends to be better. I’ll be in the taverna between twelve and one tomorrow, if there’s anything you want to check with me, and emergency numbers are in the villa guide on the table over there.”
“Thank you.”
“Well, I hope you’ll be comfortable…”
“Sure we will be.” Mrs Pargeter, hostesslike in her new home, held the door open for her guest. “You have far to go, do you?”
“Not far,” Ginnie replied uninformatively.
“Well, goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
The rep did not bother to switch on her torch, the path familiar to her from many such visits. Soon her outline vanished into the darkness. Mrs Pargeter watched a couple of fireflies ignite and extinguish themselves, then closed the door.
She checked the contents of the fridge and found them more lavish than she had expected. Bread, cheese, jam, some ham and sausage. Long-life milk, a couple of bottles of white wine, the promised mineral water. And a bottle of ouzo.
For a moment she contemplated hiding this, but decided that she couldn’t. Joyce might have seen it, for one thing, and she was a grown woman, after all. If she really was going to be helped out of her current state, the approach must be cautious and tentative. But Mrs Pargeter felt quietly confident that, with the unforced help of the sun and the sea, she could achieve much for her friend in two weeks of gentle therapy.
She poured herself a large glass from the square plastic bottle of mineral water and went through to her bedroom to unpack. The cases, she noted with satisfaction, had been delivered to the right rooms. In fact, apart from the delay at Gatwick – a circumstance beyond the tour operators’ control – all of the arrangements had been commendably efficient. She heaved a suitcase up on to one of the beds and put the key into its padlock.
It was at that moment she realised, with annoyance, that she had left her flightbag down at Spiro’s. She remembered taking it off the coach and putting it under her seat at the taverna. Then, in the confusion of Joyce’s sickness and their hurried departure, she had left it there.
Oh well, never mind. Her flightbag always contained toothbrush, face-cloth and make-up in case of airport delays, but she had others in her main luggage. Passport, credit cards and travellers’ cheques were in her handbag which she had with her, so at least her valuables were safe. And, Mrs Pargeter thought as she stifled a yawn, she certainly didn’t fancy walking down that steep path and back up again.
No, the flightbag would come to no harm overnight. She’d pick it up in the morning. And, even if it did get stolen… well, that would be a nuisance rather than a disaster.
She heard movement from the living-room and went through to see what state Joyce was in.
The answer, immediately apparent, was not a very good state. Joyce, hair wet from the shower, sat at the table, with a dressing-gown wrapped around her, facing two glasses and the ouzo bottle from the kitchen. One of the glasses contained clear water, the other already showed the clouded white of diluted ouzo.
“I really wouldn’t have any more of that, Joyce. It made you sick last time.”
“It wasn’t that that made me sick,” came the belligerent reply.
“What was it then?” asked Mrs Pargeter lightly.
“It was… It was…” For a moment Joyce hovered on the brink of replying, but caution reasserted itself. “Anyway, why’re you telling me what I should do?”
“I’m not. I’m just suggesting –”
“Yes, you are!” Joyce bawled back. “No one lets me lead my own bloody life. All the time we were married, Chris kept telling me what to do. And he’s still telling me what to do from beyond the grave. And now Conchita tells me what to do and you tell me what to do and –”
“What do you mean about Chris telling you what to do from beyond the grave?”
“I mean…” Again Joyce teetered on the brink of confession, and again drew back from the edge. “I know what I mean. That’s all that matters. It’s none of your business, Melita.”
“Very well, if you say so.”
Suddenly Joyce stated to weep. “Oh, Melita, Melita… Everything’s such a mess. I can’t do it.”
“Can’t do what?”
“Can’t do anything. Can’t do what Chris wants me to do. Don’t even really know
“Chris is dead, Joyce. He can’t make any further demands on you.”
There was a bitter laugh. “Don’t you believe it.”
“Listen –”
But Joyce was in no mood for listening. No, Mrs Pargeter feared, if anyone was cast in the listening role that night, she had drawn the short straw. Normally she wouldn’t have minded, but that particular night she did feel so tired. So exceptionally tired. She raised her hand to mask another yawn.
But the long night’s listening never materialised, because it soon became apparent that Joyce was at least as tired as she was. The sobbing and the maudlin recrimination were quickly swamped by yawns and, within half an hour, it required only the minimum of persuasion to get her friend into bed. Joyce insisted on having the ouzo bottle and a glass on the bedside table beside her, but, even before her light had been switched off, she was fast asleep.
And, within five minutes, so was Mrs Pargeter.
? Mrs Pargeter’s Package ?
Eight
Mrs Pargeter opened her eyes and blinked at the bright parallelogram of light on the white wall opposite. She had not expected to sleep through. Usually she took a night or two to settle into a new bed.
Still, there was no doubting it was morning. She felt rested, though a little headachey. Perhaps she just wasn’t used to the retsina… Mind you, she hadn’t had that much of it. The second half-litre bottle had not been touched, and she hadn’t mixed it with anything else. She shared the late Mr Pargeter’s views on the subject of Greek brandy and had never liked the aniseed taste of ouzo.
Her head still felt muzzy when she stood upright and wrapped round her blue cotton dressing-gown. Already the air felt warm in the bedroom.
She moved to the front windows. The shutters and tall glass doors were pinned back, the view obscured by gauzy curtains which bellied and slackened restlessly in the sea breeze.
Mrs Pargeter pushed through them to the white glare of the sun, which challenged her aching head. But when her eyes accommodated to the brightness, the beauty of the scene melted away all thoughts of pain.
The tops of olive trees and cypresses shielded the sea frontage of Agios Nikitas from view, and Mrs Pargeter looked straight out across to the blurred outline of Albania. The sea was of that uniform blue that one distrusts in travel brochures, its surface raked here and there by the lazy swirls of currents. A large cruise ship slid sedately across the centre of the channel. The white sails of a yacht flotilla moved like formation seagulls over the blue. Nearer to the coast, awning-topped motorboats puttered along, searching for those secret bays which were rediscovered every day by new pioneers. A speedboat, planing high out of the water, towed behind it the white smudge of a waterskier.
