Gwennie's Girl Page 13
There had been an occasion she had thrown more than that. The girl knew the story by rote now. It had been when she left Old Bradbury, who was Nanna’s second legal husband, and she said he was a mean old bugger. He was a widower and had a son by his previous marriage, a son who was “not the full quid”, Nanna said. A bit simple, young Jackie was, a bit simple. Must have got it from his mother because Old Bradbury was sharp enough. Especially with his money. Old Bradbury ran a wood-yard and was what everyone called “very warm”. Mind you, he seemed to think that just because of that he could expect Nanna to bow, scrape and do exactly as he wanted. Well, she wasn’t that sort of woman, and so she told him. Like most men, he needed to be put in his place regularly; otherwise, he got too uppity and thought he was God Almighty.
Nanna put up with a fair bit in that marriage. Young Jackie was a handful sometimes: he could be quite destructive, and he was a strong little devil. One of the explosions that marred their marital bliss came after the little boy was found heating a milk bottle in the open fire. Nanna told him to stop, then she took the bottle and put it outside the door. After a time, he apparently retrieved the bottle, re-heated it and sidled along the floor to where Nanna was ironing. Very quietly and serenely, he put the bottle against her leg and he sat watching as she leapt to her feet, dropped the hot iron on the floor and screamed in pain. Simple or not, it was a bit much, Nanna said and she would show the place where the burn scar still lived on her flesh. She was cooking sausages in a heavy cast-iron pan when Old Bradbury arrived in that night. Her leg was bandaged and the little boy was sleeping angelically, and Nanna must have been full of the story and Old Bradbury must have been tired. He was impatient of what he called her “bloody hysterics”. He wanted his tea. He wanted her to “shut-up”. He wanted his tea, damn her! He got it. She lifted the hot, heavy pan full of hot, sizzling sausages and hot liquid fat. She approached him from behind as he sat at his place at the table with the Herald open in front of him. She tipped the whole bloody lot over him. He screamed. She left. No bloody man was going to treat her like that and get away with it.
Eventually, of course, he came after her, and she allowed herself to be persuaded to return. Lizzie knew he died years later but she couldn’t remember what happened to Jackie. She should have asked Mum. Now, she’d never know. She would never know the true details of another one of Nanna’s dramas either. She had been aware that Nanna was housekeeper/companion/nurse for an old lady who lived in a big house with a huge palm tree in the front garden. Nanna was quite proud of that tree but the girl always hated it for it was ugly and dead looking. So was the house. So was the old lady, Mrs. Albert or Alfred or something.
There were some beautiful things in her house but it had a dead sort of smell, all musty and mouldy even though it was quite clean. The stairs into the bedrooms were black as black and creaked and moaned if you stood on them. Nanna wasn’t allowed to open the blinds or the curtains because the sun would fade the carpets or cushions. She did open them, of course, especially downstairs, but then the old lady would squeal and stamp the floor with her walking stick and “put on a real turn”. She was always threatening to sack Nanna, but Nanna just wouldn’t be sacked. She stayed and pretended the old woman didn’t really mean it.
The little girl was there, the day the old lady’s daughter came to visit. Her name was Evelyn, and she was very pretty with a baby in a shawl. Nanna made her some tea, nursed the baby and gave the young woman lots of cake because she thought Evelyn was too pale and thin. Evelyn and her mother didn’t get on for some reason but she had come to ask if she could live at the old house because she was too poor to live anywhere else. When the old lady came in and saw her at the table, she really threw a fit. Screams. Yells. Banging her stick across the cups and saucers, she tried to hit Evelyn and the baby. They should get out, get out, get out. She wouldn’t have any of their sort in her house. She was a God-fearing woman. They were filth. Get out. Get out. Get out. Get out.
Nanna was outraged. ‘That poor little lass. Why couldn’t that mean old bitch take her in? Where would the lass go with her baby? They would all be better off if that mean old woman fell down those bloody stairs and died. Then her daughter would be able to live in peace with her baby.’
Evelyn and her baby left, and the little girl never saw them again but it wasn’t long after that Nanna arrived for another visit and this time there was a box piled with silver things amongst her possessions. The old lady had died. She fell down the stairs late one night and Nanna hadn’t known a thing about it until next morning when she found her dead on the ground floor. Nanna wasn’t upset. She just told the story calmly. No one to blame really. Who could tell what might have happened? The miserable old thing was better off dead anyway. Evelyn would be better off too—best thing in the world for everyone that it had happened. It was a terrible accident of course, and no one could have foreseen it or prevented it. If the old girl was going to begin snooping around in the middle of the night, she was going to hurt herself sooner or later. Might as well be sooner; she was better off dead, anyway. A policeman called to talk to Nanna but the little girl wasn’t allowed to be present so she never knew what it was all about but she knew it was nice when Nanna came to stay. She’d loved Nanna, and she remembered now that vague smirk as Nanna showed the police out of the door.
Lizzie broke the chain of defiance and of being strong. Lizzie was not like Nanna who would never put up with anyone who tried to push her around. She was not Gwennie who was charm personified. But now, Lizzie was OK here in her safe apartment in Geneva.
Turkey
Lizzie moved slowly around the apartment, packing and organising for the next trip which would include her annual sailing holiday. Lizzie had been sailing each summer for the last three years, once around Majorca and Minorca and twice around the coast of Turkey. It was Turkey again, this year. She sailed with two German couples and a decidedly crazy German captain on a fifteen-metre Benateau, called Aquarius. This year, Sam would be joining them. Lizzie still didn’t know how to sail but she was a good crewmember: if she were told to wind something, she wound it; if she were told to tie a certain knot, she tied it. Throw the line, coil the rope, fold the sail, lift that bale, tote that barge. Oh Gwennie, there’s another song for you.
She would do it all as quickly and as efficiently as anyone could demand and she could anticipate most needs. She could steer like old tar, but she could never, ever understand the stuff about the sails and how full to have them and how to angle them and when to use the spinnaker and all that tacking back and forth. Her tiny mind just wouldn’t grasp the principles. So she was happy as a member of the crew, never challenging the captain, always totally, unquestioningly obedient and she did not make any decisions that mattered for three weeks. Sam said he would be obedient too so Captain Kris would not feel challenged.
The rest of the crew were two couples: one about Lizzie’s age and one considerably younger. They were all physicists working at CERN, the international research centre that straddled the French, Swiss border at Geneva. Captain Kris was a computer programmer, a summer-time alcoholic in training and fond of the occasional joint. Lizzie told Sam that between them the others had enough brain and savvy to keep them afloat. They all spoke English to some degree, but the bonus, for Lizzie, was that when together, they naturally preferred to speak German. This gave Lizzie plenty of quiet time and the chance to drowse, daydream or just empty her mind completely. Not such a big task, some might say. She had perfected the art of sleeping in an upright position with her eyes open, had perfected it during interminable staff meetings at the office. When not actually steering, once the boat was underway, she moved lazily between leaning against the mast, stretching out on the front deck (she still didn’t get the terms correct), lying prone at the side of the cabin with her fingers curled around a stanchion in case of a sudden dip or propped up against the rail beside the wheel.
Sam could help, of course, but really, they could give themselves up
to the sun, the sea and be creatures of their senses. No matter how hot it was, there was always a breeze. Lizzie was never sick—nor was Sam, he said—but revelled in the movement of this beautiful boat which was all white and polished wood and deep blue sails and bleached rope and canvas. At times, Lizzie thought she had seen every shade of blue that the sea and the sky could produce and then she would see another. Her skin opened to the sun, and she could taste the tang of the salt on the wind or in the spray. There was always the accompaniment of slopping sails, clinking metal clasps, flags fluttering and the water, always the water that whispered, shirred or clopped at their passing.
The greatest thrill was the dolphins. Someone would sight them curving and arcing across the surface and would call and point. Usually by the time Lizzie had opened her eyes or sat upright, they would have reached the boat. They would play, smile and leap and dive while everyone hung over the sides, excited by the sense of being privileged to enjoy these lovable visitors whose speed and grace had everyone gasping and laughing for the sheer joy of it all. Then, without warning, they were away as quickly as they had come, leaving a sense of mingled disappointment and exhilaration. It was always a special day when the dolphins came to play.
Some nights they pulled into marinas at coastal villages and towns that had probably been receiving sailing ships for centuries. The moment of moving into a berth and dropping anchor was always tense, as Captain Kris seemed to feel his reputation was on the line if his crew did not perform well. One person knelt with the anchor poised waiting for the order to let it go and to control the run of chain to the depth needed. One stood by to make sure that Kris’ orders were relayed in case there was noise or his voice did not carry (There was never any danger that Kris’ voice would not carry). Two stood with ropes properly knotted and coiled ready to throw them to the waiting helper on the pier. Two stood with extra buffers ready to make sure there was no danger of the boat contacting a neighbour. Kris, of course, reversed, steered, yelled orders, swore or laughed aloud depending on how well the manoeuvre was carried out and who was in the audience. The procedure was reversed when leaving.
One morning, it went farcically awry. Another boat had arrived late the previous night, the anchor chains had crossed, and as the Aquarius with Captain Kris giving orders got under way, it became clear the two boats were hooked together. The other boat was being sailed by an Italian man and a Spanish woman who each became caricatures of the stereotypes of their people. There was much shouting, screaming, waving of hands and pulling of hair.
Kris yelled at them to release their ropes because he was afraid he would pull their anchor and tear a hole in their boat. They seemed either incapable or unwilling to do so. The Aquarius was having trouble holding still. Eventually, a sailor from another yacht released the ropes and the two boats began a game of tag and follow-the-leader around the tiny harbour, trying to unlock the tangled anchors. They lowered them and lifted them, always to the accompaniment of the Mediterranean hysteria and to the delighted amusement of every other crew and most of the villagers. Kris managed to appear calm through gritted teeth and a fixed grimace, but he hated being part of the circus. The crew knew better than to speak or offer suggestions: never were six professional adults so unquestioningly obedient.
Finally, the two boats were sitting in the middle of the harbour with both anchors visible and locked in the air between them. A motor dinghy came out and an Englishman approached, offering to try to untangle them. It was no easy task and potentially dangerous because the anchors could do serious injury if they fell anywhere on the dinghy or on him, but slowly, he began easing them clear of each other. The Mediterranean couple showered him with angry and useless directions. ‘Listen, you two, do you want me to help or not? If you do, then SHUT UP!!’ His voice floated across the water. People on other boats cheered, and the villagers followed suit after the few seconds it took for the English message to be interpreted. The couple then turned on each other, and there was a yelling match on the deck as each was clearly blamed and they yelled, ‘Silencio!’ more and more to each other. The audience was in fits.
Meanwhile, the Englishman-to-the-rescue gave a final heave, and the anchors dropped apart. Kris offered him a drink but he grinned and said, ‘I think you should just get under way.’ They left with bows and waves all around. The other boat was still drifting with a quarrelling couple intent on each other as the Aquarius moved out to sea.
This year, Lizzie was arriving after the others because she had to be at a meeting in London on Friday. Sam had met the others the previous day. Lizzie took British Air to Ankara and changed to another flight to the small airport at Dalaman, which was nearest to the coastal area around Marmaris and Fethiye.
She had to take a taxi along the cliff road for over three hours to meet the others who would have already joined Kris and the boat in the harbour of Likya Han which was a favourite stopping place each year. The plane landed at about midnight, and the trick was to find a sober taxi driver. Lizzie was still in the inevitable blazer, and black pants with her brief case and her pack when she came out of the terminal into the darkness of the car park. All other passengers seemed to have disappeared, whisked away by waiting friends or families or tourist buses and as Lizzie approached, drivers surrounded her, all calling to take her anywhere in Turkey she named. It was very dark. Put on a confident front, girl. Hold that briefcase and look as though you know exactly what you are doing.
She pointed to one man and spoke to him. He lurched forward. She tried another. He too breathed alcoholic fumes. She tried a third. He giggled. Oh, this is great. She tried a fourth. He said, ‘Yes, I can take you.’ They agreed on the price, and Lizzie got in with a sigh and settled back for the drive.
When they reached the small town near the airport, he stopped and said, ‘Which way?’
‘Don’t you know?’ stared Lizzie.
The man shrugged.
‘So how do you know how much it costs?’
Another shrug.
Bloody hell. Lizzie looked for a signpost and saw the name of a town she recognised. ‘That way,’ she pointed. Set your alarm, girl, or stay awake.
It was a beautiful drive. The moon was almost full, and the night was bright across the water as they dipped, climbed, twisted and turned over and around the hills. The harshness of the land became smudged charcoal in the moonlight. Lizzie kept her window down, partly to make sure she didn’t sleep, but also so she could enjoy the pungency of the woods and farmland that they passed. The air was soft, soft, soft. Her mind began to drift towards Sam. Slowly, she brought it back.
After a little more than two and half hours, she began to recognise more signs and knew they must be approaching the area around Likya Han. She was not at all sure she would recognise the turn off. It was such a tiny village there might not be a sign where they needed one so she told the driver to leave the main road and go into a harbour which she recognised and which was bigger and more popular with sailing tourists where the nightlife continued until morning.
People sat in the open with drinks or licking ice creams in cones. Restaurants opened to the sky so there was always a smell of good food. From a few bars, there was loud disco music but it was muted by the warmth of the night. By the harbour wall, young people danced or smoked or ate those melting slices of lamb or beef wrapped in flat bread with yoghurt or spicy sauce. The old streets climbed the hill away from the harbour. All night there were sellers of earrings, sandals, painted clay, stuffed camels and shining multi-coloured hats. The taxi driver again asked Lizzie the name of their destination. After what seemed a very complicated conversation with another man, he sat back in the car but did not move.
‘Are we going?’ asked Lizzie.
Shrug.
‘Is there a problem?’
Shrug.
‘What the hell are you waiting for?’
A tray appeared at the window. On it were two steaming glasses of coffee.
‘Thank you,’ she apologised.
A hand appeared. She paid for the two coffees and drank in silence. The tray reappeared, she returned the glasses, and they continued on their way. It was after four o’clock in the morning when they approached Likya Han by the one road that ran down to the harbour-side village. Now what? There was no marina here, they just anchored off shore and came in and out by dinghy. Everyone would be asleep. How on earth was she going to signal the boat? Was she in for a long dark wait on the deserted waterfront beside the wooden fishing boats moored in rows?
They crept slowly into the sleeping village and, joy! she saw Sam and Kris waiting for her, standing in the beam of the taxi lights, grinning and Sam was clutching a huge bunch of flowers. She was so pleased to see them that she fell out of the car and threw her arms around them both. They might each be slightly crazy but Sam was so dependable in so many ways. He kissed her and thrust the flowers at her laughing aloud. Yes, Sam was drunk in that Captain Kris sort of way that made you wonder if the two would ever be quite sober again. ‘Thank you. Where did you find flowers?’
‘I stole them,’ Sam grinned. ‘In the morning you have to hide them. Don’t walk through the village with them or the women will lynch you.’ Yes, this was a Captain Kris sort of gesture. He and Sam were clearly going to get along well on this trip.
‘Are we going to the boat?’ asked Lizzie.
‘Too late; too drunk,’ said Sam.
‘We wake everyone. We stay here. Come on,’ added Kris.
Sam shouldered her pack, minced a few steps with her briefcase, and the two men took off into the night until she called them to wait while she paid the taxi driver.
‘Where are we going to sleep?’ asked Lizzie when she caught up with him.
‘Ali’s bar,’ this was said with another grin she could hear in the darkness.
‘Ali’s bar! Bloody hell!’ said Lizzie.
Ali’s bar was a minute space on a terrace that was reached up some squiggly steps. Ali himself was another of those drop-down-dead handsome types with slow, heavy eyes and a moustache that was truly droopy. Lizzie had danced with him often, a big smiling bear of a man who moved rhythmically to the rather tinny music that came from his old tape player. Where could they sleep at Ali’s bar? On the counter? Too small even for Lizzie. When they reached the terrace, Kris hissed, ‘Wait here. I’ll check,’ and disappeared up what Lizzie saw was another flight of steps up to another level.