Chloe Rayban - Footprints in the Sand

‘Yeah, what’s that phrase? Nature raw in tooth and claw?’ I agreed.

The trek back up the steps to the taverna seemed to go on forever. By the time we reached the top, we were both hot and cross and headachy.

‘Bags first in the shower,’ I said.

‘Don’t be long then. I think I’m going to melt.’

I turned the shower on and nothing happened. When I tried to flush the loo it made a hollow cranking noise and no water came out.

‘That’s it,’ I said. ‘That’s the final straw. I’m not staying here any longer.’ I was near to tears.

‘Oh Lucy. Don’t tell me the water’s off.’

‘Try for yourself.’

I lay down on my bed as Mum tried a range of clanking and cranking, but she had no more luck than me.

‘See?’

She sat down on her bed. ‘Do you really hate it here?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Well, I suppose it is a bit primitive…’

‘Primitive! It’s positively Stone Age. I’m hot and I’ve got a headache and there isn’t even any water.’

‘Maybe we should have looked further.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘And I really wanted us to enjoy this holiday…’

‘So did I!’

‘I know that next year you’ll be off somewhere with your friends… It could be our last together…’

‘I know, I know…’

‘Listen. If you absolutely hate it here, we could move on…’

‘But you keep saying you really like it.’

‘Not if you’re not happy…’

‘Well, it is a bit cut off…’

‘I suppose I could get on a bus this afternoon and have a look round. There must be other places.’

‘Nowhere could be worse than this.’

‘Well, we could be nearer to a decent beach.’

‘Want me to come with you?’

‘No point in us both going out in this heat. You rest that headache, get a plaster on your blister. Have a sleep.’

‘Thanks Mum.’

It was cool in the room. The shutters had been closed all morning to keep the sun out. I lay back and shut my eyes. I heard Mum bustling around the room, collecting her things. As she went out through the door she said: ‘Oh, and Lucy – don’t go out in the sun again. Not till after four. It’s scorching. You’ll get burned.’

‘Mmmm. OK. Bye.’

I lay gazing into the semi-darkness, chasing the tiny squiggles you get in your eyes as they darted back and forth across the gloom. They’re stray cells apparently, being washed back and forth over the eye. I’m fascinated by all that stuff. Mum calls it gruesome. She’s not exactly scientific. I reckon her science education must’ve ended with the life-cycle of the frog. When I told her I wanted to be a vet she nearly freaked out. She claimed I’d got the whole idea from some series I’d seen on the telly and it would wear off. But it is what I want to do – really badly.

My head had stopped throbbing. I listened to the noises outside. The dredger must’ve knocked off for the day and I could now hear all the other sounds of the village. Hens somewhere not too far off. And a donkey braying in the distance – a long cascade of eeyores, like mad hysterical laughter. Then the soft sound of the wings of pigeons as they landed on the roof and started scrabbling and cooing.

I was starting to feel bored. What a waste of all that sunlight out there. I climbed off the bed and went to the door. It wasn’t that hot. Mum was just being over-protective, as usual.

My shorts were hanging on the balcony rail. I could at least try and get the tar off. There was a pump in the vineyard – maybe that worked. I took the shorts and some soap and went and cranked the handle. Sure enough, a gush of water came out.

The shorts were brand new from Gap. They were the first pair of shorts I’d ever had which didn’t make my bottom look big. I’d been really pleased with them. But after five minutes or so of scrubbing with the soap, I’d made the tarry marks bigger and darker, if anything.

‘What you doin’?’

I jumped. The Old Rogue was standing with his hands on his hips watching me, frowning. Maybe I wasn’t meant to be in his vineyard.

‘There’s no water in the bathroom. I was trying to get these marks off.’

He held out a hand. ‘Let me see?’

He took the shorts and made some tut-tutting noises. Then he carried them over to where he had a can of what looked like kerosene. He slopped some on and rubbed the marks. Then he brought them back to the pump, and with a lot of huffing and puffing, soaped the stains and rinsed them out.

‘See – good – like new,’ he said.

The tar had disappeared as if by magic.

Thank you, that’s brilliant.’

‘ Parakolo. ’

‘Parakolo?’

‘No worries.’ His face broke into a smile. He wasn’t such an Old Rogue really.

‘How do you say “thank you” in Greek?’

‘ Efharisto. ’

I messed it up the first time, and he repeated the word syllable by syllable.

He was tickled pink when I got it right.

I hung the shorts on the balcony rail to dry in the sun and leaned beside them gazing out to sea. It was a really intense blue – like a mirror-image of the sky, but deeper. There was a lone windsurfer skimming across the bay. My eyes lazily followed it. I’ve always wanted to windsurf. Plenty of girls do. There was a gravel pit not far from home where they gave lessons. But Mum said they were too expensive. That’s the thing about your parents divorcing. You soon discover that two different homes cost a lot more to run than one did. Even though Mum worked too now, we never seemed to have anywhere near as much money as we used to.

Leaning further over the rail, I saw that there was a kind of shack on the beach that I hadn’t noticed before. It had a pile of windsurfers beside it and a sign which said that they were for hire. Civilisation!

Once my shorts were dry, I’d take a closer look at that beach. Maybe, somewhere along that stretch of sand, I could find a big enough gap in the weed to risk a swim.

Half an hour later, I was down on the beach. I cast an eye along the stretch of sand, looking for bathers or sunbathers, but it was deserted. Or was it? At the very far end, almost too far away to see, there seemed to be a few rough tents and towels maybe, hanging between the trees – signs that backpackers had taken up occupation. I thought of the bronzed boys on the boat. Just maybe this wasn’t such a bad place after all.

I drew level with the shack. The sign advertised pedaloes as well as the windsurfers, but I couldn’t see any. The shack was locked up, and on closer inspection, I found a piece of paper was stuck on the window giving the opening times for hire. It was closed between one o’clock and four.

I took off my sneakers and found the black sand was burning hot, so I had to do a hurried hop, skip and a jump down to the water’s edge. The sea felt deliciously cool. Just the right temperature, in fact, and the weed didn’t look too bad close up. There were plenty of gaps to get through.

I hesitated. I was longing for a swim, but a swim is always all the more delicious if you get really hot first. So I spread out my towel quite near to the water’s edge, stripped off to my bikini and stretched out. Not much point smothering myself in sun-lotion – I was going in the water any minute.

I had a compilation tape made by Migs’ brother in my Walkman. It was brilliant, he’d put all my favourite tracks on it. I quite fancied Nick actually. He was quite a bit older than us, going to University next year, so he was hardly likely to take much notice of a friend of his kid sister. But he was always nice to me for some reason.

I lay on the sand soaking in the delicious warmth of the sun, with my eyes closed listening to the tape and having some rather censorable thoughts about Nick…