Chloe Rayban - Footprints in the Sand

‘Ha ha, very funny,’ I said. ‘I’d have to be anaesthetized before you’d get me back on that.’

‘Feeling any better?’

‘Mmm… the lemonade helped.’

‘Well, if you’re up to it, I reckon we ought to find the Tourist Office and see if they can suggest somewhere to stay.’

We trekked miles in search of it. Mum kept spotting all these little signs with Ts for Information on them which seemed designed to take us on a scenic tour of the town. I’d never been anywhere so Third World. The roads were cracked and pot-holed and smelt of donkeys, and the few bars or restaurants we came across just had men sitting outside who stared at us. The whole place felt vaguely threatening.

‘I don’t like it here,’ I said.

‘Oh don’t be silly, Lucy. Ports are always like this. It’ll be fine when we get out into the country – you’ll see.’

We must have been walking round in circles because when we eventually found the Tourist Office, it was located more or less where we’d disembarked from the ferry. It was in a forbidding grey concrete block next door to the Customs Office. It had bars over the windows and looked like a prison. But there was a sign outside with the same jolly tourist picture showing the pot of geraniums that we’d seen on the front of Mum’s brochure. I cracked up when I spotted the slogan written underneath: You’ll learn to love Lexos.

‘What’s so funny?’ demanded Mum. I think she was losing her cool by this time.

But when she caught sight of the poster she started giggling as well. ‘Do you think they give indoctrination sessions?’

‘Vee haf vays of making you luf us…’ I said.

The people in the Tourist Office brought out a plastic folder full of pictures of hotels and guest houses. I could see Mum getting hot and bothered trying to calculate how much the prices quoted in drachmas worked out at. She was never any good with noughts. I helped her with the maths and made a few acid comments about the pictures.

They all looked incredibly dreary. I’d wanted to go somewhere like Corfu or Skiathos, somewhere with a bit of life. Clubs maybe. The places they had on offer looked as if they were all in the back of beyond – and I couldn’t make out any guests under the age of about fifty in the photos.

I kept giving Mum meaningful glances and turning the page.

‘Well, if you’re going to be like this, Lucy,’ whispered Mum, ‘we’ll never find anywhere to stay.’

I felt hot and my head ached.

‘How can you possibly tell what a place is like from a photo in a book?’ I whispered crossly. ‘Think of what that poster does for this island.’

Mum glanced at the poster with a sigh and then turned to the girl behind the desk, saying apologetically: ‘I’m sorry. I think we’d better come back later.’ She raised an eyebrow in my direction. I loathed it when she did that.

We trailed back to the café where I’d had the lemonade and Mum ordered two more.

‘Look,’ she said when we’d both cooled down. ‘Let’s hire a taxi and get away from the port. Ports are always dreary. I bet we’ll find a gorgeous beach with a taverna just along the coast. All we’ve got to do is look around a bit, that’s what Dad and I used to do when we came to the islands in the seventies…’

She paused for a moment, and just a shadow of that thin-lipped look came back on her face. I remembered photos in our album of Mum and Dad, young and tanned and carefree on hired mopeds, bumming round the islands. Mum in a ridiculous daisy-printed mini dress and Dad with long hair and John Lennon sunglasses, both totally relaxed and happy together. Looking at the pictures, you’d think that feeling would last forever. Weird how things can change like that.

‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said, picking up my backpack before she could get all emotional and embarrassing. I suddenly felt guilty about being such a pain.

‘I know I’m right,’ said Mum, sounding more like her old self.

‘You’re always right,’ I teased.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s make a move then. We’re bound to find somewhere you’ll love.’

We bought cheese pies and honey cakes from the bakery for our lunch, and once I’d eaten I felt loads better. Then we tracked down what seemed to be the one and only taxi on the island.

I think Manos, the driver, must have come from a very large family. At any rate, he had an awful lot of cousins, and we must have visited most of them that afternoon. We started at a five-star hotel. It was a great big pink stone barracks of a place which smelt like a hospital. It did have a pool… but it was empty. Mum turned that down with the excuse that it was too expensive. So Manos must’ve come to the conclusion that we were flat broke, and he took us to his poorer cousins. One had a flat to let that reeked of calor gas and drains. Another had a room with a large decaying double bed and a fridge standing in the middle of the bedroom. And worse still, when Mum said we wanted a place on our own, he took us to what he called ‘a bungalow’ which was a kind of prefab with a compost heap for a garden and a goat tethered outside.

As the sun dipped towards the horizon I was fast losing faith. I hadn’t seen a single decent beach yet.

‘What we really want is a taverna,’ said Mum. ‘A nice, clean, cheap taverna, near a beach.’

‘Oh, taverna !’ said Manos – and he sucked through his teeth as if the very concept of a taverna, was new to him. Then he swung back into the driving seat and shifted noisily into gear. ‘OK, if you want taverna , I take you.’

It was a long drive along a winding cliff road to the other side of the island to find this taverna. I don’t think Manos was in a very good mood. He obviously didn’t have a cousin who owned a taverna, so he wasn’t going to get his cut, or free drinks, or whatever it was he usually received as commission.

Mum had her eyes closed for most of the journey which was a waste because she was on the cliff-side and the views must have been staggering. The sun was going down and it was the most magical sunset. All gold and blue and mauve with puffy little clouds turning candy-floss pink.

It was almost dark when we crunched to a halt in a cobbled square. We climbed out of the taxi. Manos beckoned to us and led us up over a rise.

We were on top of a headland, looking out over the most amazing view of the sea, which had turned a livid copper colour in the low sunlight. We could see for miles, right over to the misty shapes of the neighbouring islands.

Some kind of building was outlined against the sky. It had a corrugated iron roof which looked on the point of caving in and a battered sign surrounded by coloured light-bulbs, most of which didn’t work, which read: TAVERNA PARADISOS.

‘Perfect,’ said Mum.

A fat man with a sagging belly, who I took to be the owner, was lounging on the terrace, wearing a dirty vest and boxer shorts. He had a bottle and a glass beside him, and I reckoned he had been indulging in the contents for some time.

I shot Mum a warning glance, but before it registered, she was already asking if he had a room free.

He leapt to his feet with remarkable agility for a man his size.

‘You want room? I have good room. How long?’

‘Oh I don’t know – a week? Ten days maybe?’

‘Best room! Best price! Private facilities,’ he said.

‘Oh, that’s nice. Can we take a look?’

He ushered us across the terrace as if he was showing us around the Ritz.

I followed. Mum had really lost it this time. The place was awful. It wasn’t what I had in mind at all. It didn’t have a pool or anything, and by the look of it we were the only guests he’d had this side of Christmas.