Polly Samson - A Theatre for Dreamers

My hair is damp to the touch; a fine skein of mist is caught in the nap of the blanket that Jimmy and I share. Charmian has found us a fold of rocks that is carpeted by plants with soft downy leaves and clusters of tiny white and baby-pink flowers. ‘Dolls’ flowers’, she calls them. We’re in a row facing east, all except Leonard who stands, stretches his arms, finds a rocky perch and stares out alone. Bands of aubergine and plum seep from the horizon, herald the first streaks of amber fire. We’ve gathered flowers for our benedictions. Charmian brought a knife for the asphodels and, as well as all the ones I don’t know the names for, there are poppies and irises and tiny snake’s-head fritillaries. We stand along the ridge with our water and flowers until the great ball of the sun emblazons the sea by unfurling its bolt of orange satin.

The cocks are crowing, there’s birdsong, more barking dogs. We follow Charmian’s lead and splash our faces with well water. Leonard pours his tin jug over his head and, grinning, shakes the drops from his hair like a dog. Edie and Janey sit cross-legged weaving flowers into their hair and Jimmy is limbering up to the morning, leaping from boulder to boulder, his arms gracefully handling an invisible tightrope-walker’s pole.

Leonard squats on his haunches breaking the bread. We dunk it in sweet Lipsian wine as the island gently steams in the first rays of the sun and Charmian is first to free us from silence by ringing the iron bell.

Marianne has joined us above the cave at Spilia. Her folded arms rest on modestly arranged knees so that as much of her pale slim body is obscured from prying eyes as possible. Her tan is yet to catch up with her return to Hydra, though the tip of her nose and the apples of her cheeks have already turned pink. She perches neat as a little white bird, from her pearly-painted toenails to her golden hair, which is pinned into a roll at her nape. It’s the first time I’ve had an opportunity to study her and she possesses a curious stillness. She’s chosen one of the concrete steps just below Charmian, who holds sway from her usual stony cradle. Charmian looks broad and brown and muscular beside her, and rather shabby. Her once-black swimsuit gapes unflatteringly where the elastic has gone. Her face is animated while she talks but the sploshing of waves against the rocks makes it hard to catch what she’s saying. The gist seems to be that Marianne should worry less about Axel and concentrate on simply enjoying her baby. Marianne wears a small smile and listens with her cheek pressed to her shoulder. Her bikini has a halter tie and is blue with white dots which makes me instantly wish for one just like it.

The summer invasion is not yet in full swing so we all lay claim to our favourite sprawling spots on the sun-baked rocks. Ours is a flat platform between two boulders that’s been filled with concrete and I think poor Marianne can’t help but feel our curious eyes. A broad stripe of light catches the carefully arranged angles of her body, zigzags the origami folds of her limbs. She has the smile of a sphinx and is so strikingly pretty I can’t really feel too cross that Jimmy’s put down his book and rolled on to his front to study her.

Neither do I think I’m imagining how Göran and Albin and Ivar have started behaving since Marianne’s been here. There isn’t a moment one of them isn’t striding to the edge of the cliff and performing various daring and athletic entries into the sea. Now Göran’s crouching down beside her, dripping on to the rocks. He’s reminding her that last summer she made him hot cocoa every night. He’s been dreaming of it ever since he got back here. You might think there was something between them, the way she’s blushing and laughing, but then we’re all crowding around at the head of the cave as Jimmy balances with his toes curled over the lip. Jimmy’s beauty almost hurts my eyes as he spins and springs high to the sky with cruciate arms and into a backwards arc that seems to hover at its apex before entering the water with barely a splash.

There’s a squeal. Charmian is pulling Marianne behind her, ‘Come, make the most of it while Axel’s got the baby,’ and they race past and leap and without letting go of each other bomb the water around Jimmy with a wild whoop. After that we’re all diving and pushing each other back in, treading water, bobbing and chatting in a ring.

Charmian seems almost dangerous with energy; she’s always much livelier when George and the children aren’t around. In the glitter of the ocean something wild fights to be free. ‘There’s at least an hour until sundown – who wants a race to Avlaki and back?’ Charmian is built to win. Her long legs and broad shoulders provide a powerful crawl that even Bobby can’t match. Marianne and I can only wave them off.

Marianne stretches out beside me to dry. She has a scar like a small pink centipede running along her bikini line, otherwise she is perfect and smooth as an empty page. Her belly is so flat it is hard to believe it recently contained a baby and she looks at me a little startled when I tell her.

‘ Pfft , in Norway the women are not encouraged to take bed-rest. Momo, my grandmother, was rigorous about staying fit. Besides, on an island of steps, there’s no other way; if you didn’t stay strong you’d starve to death.’ Her accent is charming and there’s something compelling and breathy in her voice that suggests secrets and confessions. We cup our hands across our eyes to check on the progress of the swimmers. Charmian’s nothing but a dot, the others ranged like splashy goslings in her wake. ‘Charm’s a strong woman,’ Marianne says.

She turns on to her front, propping her elbows. She seems to be avoiding eye contact. I agree, tell her I think Charmian is amazing.

‘Axel’s about the only man on Hydra who can swim as fast as her,’ Marianne says, though I hadn’t meant swimming in particular. She has one of those faces that falls naturally to a pleasant smile. Her teeth sparkle; her eyes do too, in a ready-to-be-amused way. I’ve never seen skin this flawless. She speaks without looking at me: ‘Charmian says you’ve been here since Easter. So I guess you’ve run across my crazy husband?’ The mild smile remains fixed and I feel myself flush, though I have nothing to feel guilty about.

She raises her eyes to meet mine. She is squinting, poised for pain.

‘I’ve seen him come down for his mail but I don’t think we’ve been introduced.’ My heart races as I change the subject. ‘Do you know anything about this book George has coming out? I’m dying to know what it is. Patrick Greer was hinting that he’s written something indiscreet. He said it was “despicable” and Charmian seems upset by it.’

Marianne shakes her head. ‘Yes, yes. I think this must be the thing he wrote in a great rage last year when he was in Athens with his TB. He wasn’t thrilled about Charm’s lover and kind of vented it, I guess…’ She stops and bites her lip.

‘How did he find out that she was having an affair…?’

‘George was impotent, that’s what she told me. Side effects of his drugs. She always tries to be careful but on an island like this one all the birds have to do is chatter all day.’

I glance across the bay. The swimmers are out of sight around the headland. ‘No wonder she’s embarrassed. Who was her lover?’

Marianne reaches into her basket for a bottle of orange juice. ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter who. It was a very bad time but really he drove her to it. There was much breaking of china; everyone here thought they’d split up over it,’ she says, offering me the bottle.

The juice is sweet and warm. I try not to be greedy. She gestures for me to take more. ‘This is the problem with these highly strung people,’ she says. ‘And when we’re all bored and thrown together like this it becomes everybody’s business. Now, why don’t you tell me about your Jimmy? How did you two come to be here?’