‘That’s happened to me before, as well.’ The ouzo tasted good and clean in my mouth, but what I really wanted was a beer.
We passed up on Kyrenia castle. Warboys said we’d been at sea too long, and walked us back up to the UN compound. He examined his truck; had a good poke around underneath, and below the bonnet before he let me anywhere near it. It looked as if my holiday was over.
Bowling back across the plain I asked him, ‘Who was that Clytemnestra the boy mentioned?’
‘Wife of King Agamemnon. He sacrificed their daughter to get a favourable wind from the gods to blow the Greek fleet to Troy . . . then to add insult to injury as far as his wife was concerned, he came back from there with a new mistress, Cassandra the witch. Clytemnestra, being the good wife she was, greeted her king’s return by climbing into his bath with him for a spot of how’s-your-father, and whilst engaged in an act of loving congress, cut his throat. That’s how I like to think of it happening, anyway. Glorious woman.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘Killed by Orestes – another Greek hero. They all feature in several Greek tragedies together. Funny bunch, the Greeks. Greek heroes killed a lot of women – their equivalent of Association Football, something to do on a slow Saturday afternoon. We’re completely wrong in thinking of Ancient Greece as a peaceful place full of philosophers, mathematicians, writers, musicians and artists – what these people were really interested in was war, incest, human sacrifice, rape and murder. Not much different to their modern descendants, if you asks me.’
‘Who should I read?’
‘I’d start with Aeschylus, if I was you. Try his Agamemnon. When I was sixteen I sat watching it one night with four thousand Greeks in an old open-air theatre – Epidaurus. The place was falling to bits, but from even the highest stone seat you could hear someone whisper on stage. The play opens with a watchman on the walls of Mycenae spotting a signal fire in the east which tells the people in the city that their king is back. That night there were forest fires burning out of control all around us. Smoke and sparks were in the air. It informed my earliest opinions of the Greeks.’
‘Which were?’
‘Probably the most literate race on earth, but absolutely bloody useless at putting out fires.’
We skirted Nicosia because it was deep in curfew by then anyway. The tarmac hummed beneath our wheels. Occasionally we passed a staff car or a lorry. I almost dozed off. Warboys didn’t say much else before dropping me off at my billet in the RAF compound. Then he drove off towards Watson’s pavilion. I guess he had to report back.
Pete’s gear was still on his bed, and his change of clothes hung in his locker. Neither had been moved so I guessed that he hadn’t come back yet, although that didn’t mean the hut was untenanted.
Steve sat cross-legged on my bed. She was wearing shorts and a shirt, and had pulled my blanket around her shoulders. I could see her brown knees. Her face was unreadable. No make-up.
‘How did you get in?’ I asked her.
‘The usual way – I asked someone nicely. That was yesterday. Where have you been?’
‘Sightseeing.’
‘With Tony?’
‘Yes. That’s right.’
She sighed, and looked away from me before asking, ‘What do you want me to do?’
The song in my head was Hoagy singing ‘How Little We Know’. I let it run for a verse and a full chorus, then said it.
‘Take your clothes off.’
Our tenderness surprised even me.
Sometime in the small hours I pulled the blanket around us again. I felt cold. When she stirred I kissed her brow, and said, ‘I’m hungry.’
‘I made you an apple tart.’
‘You did what?’
‘I made you an apple tart, yesterday. It’s on the table – a day old, but probably still OK.’
I got up and brought it back to the bed. We ate a slice each. I brushed the crumbs and sugar from her chin with my hand. She brushed crumbs and sugar from me. When we slid down in the bed she was partly turned away. I wrapped my arms around her the way I had at Salamis. She rubbed a hand slowly up and down one of them, as if reassuring herself I was still there.
I spoke very close to her ear. ‘Is this a particularly bad time to tell you I love you?’
She froze for a fraction of a second, relaxed, and murmured, ‘Say it in the morning, after you’ve had me again. That way, if it doesn’t work out, I can always tell myself it was just in the heat of the moment.’
I said, ‘OK,’ bent, and kissed that lovely hollow in a girl’s shoulder I’ve probably told you about before.
I slept eventually. I’m not sure that Steve did. I remember her eyes were open, and her breaths were deep and easy. Just as I was drifting off I think she gave a short, low chuckle – it wasn’t a triumphal sound, it was as if she was pleased about something.
‘I love you.’
‘You’re only saying that in the heat of the moment.’
‘No, I’m not, but I’ll say it in the heat of the next moment, and the one after that, and the one after that if you like.’
She had propped us both up on her elbows.
‘You’re crazy.’
‘Agreed. I was dead meat the first time I woke up and saw you looking at me. My brain boiled, but I’m over that now. I just love you.’
‘What are you after, Charlie? A share of the profits?’
‘No, I’m after you. Everything else will work itself out, you’ll see.’
She smiled like sunshine.
‘I think you’re nuts.’ Silence. Then she added, ‘But you can say it again, if you like.’
‘I’ll need another heat of the moment first.’
‘No, Charlie, you have to get up. You have to go to
