Polly Samson - A Theatre for Dreamers

‘You looking for Charm?’ The skin of his face appears three sizes too big for him too. ‘I’m guessing you’re little Erica from the Bayswater Road?’ He clears a throat gruff with tobacco: ‘So, big enough now to go walkabout, eh?’ and rests his cigarette on a saucer, extends a leathered hand with a strong grip.

‘George Johnston,’ he says. ‘Her hubby.’

I flood with relief as well as shyness. His is a strange sort of gaze that flicks like elastic between mischief, scorn and anxiety. ‘I don’t think we ever had the pleasure in Palace Court.’ It’s a face of contradictions. His eyes beg for a crumb but his under-hung lip is set for cruel mockery. He might bite any hand that feeds him.

‘Yes, I’m Erica…’

He inclines his head towards his drinking companion, a doleful man with a long stooping back and straggly beard. ‘And this is Pat Greer.’ The man flings George a tired grimace. ‘I mean Patrick, never Pat,’ says George with a smirk.

‘No, and by Jesus, not Paddy either,’ Patrick says, broadening his Irish accent to make his point.

I smile quickly at Patrick and turn back to George.

‘I was supposed to be meeting your wife when I got here. She wrote to me about a house we could rent?’

I shoot a glance up the port to the ragged group weaving towards us. ‘The others are on their way,’ I say, attempting to keep the panic from my voice.

A right mixed bunch we’ve managed to gather at Piraeus and on the boat, all struggling with bedrolls and guitars and easels and backpacks, Bobby shamefully red in the face from shouting my name and Jimmy hauling my luggage as well as his own.

‘Pull up a pew, Ricky,’ George says, ‘she’s not here,’ and before I can decide if I like this novel shortening of my name calls inside, ‘Hey, Nikos, get this weary girl a drink, and while you’re at it I’ll have another Metaxa.’

He taps his empty glass, ‘I take to drinking when Charm’s not around,’ and introduces the laughing proprietor as Nikos Katsikas, ‘the only man you’ll need to chat up on this island… if you don’t want to starve. And luckily for us all, one of the few who speaks English.’

‘But where is she? Where’s Charmian?’ My voice comes out squeaky. Bobby has spotted me; he’s leading the pack across the port.

George follows my gaze, turns a drawl on Patrick: ‘Here they come, more and more of these bludgers, lured by our fantastically blue water and cheap rent to live out their carefree immorality away from prying city eyes. God help us all.’

I squeak a bit more while George weighs me up from the rim of his empty glass. I sound about six, I can’t help crushing my r’s when I’m flustered, and I’m certain I’m blushing.

Patrick breaks the tension. ‘Charmian’s on Poros. She’s gone to see the bank there.’

George gnaws morosely at a fingernail. ‘She was supposed to get back this morning.’ It’s unusual to see a grown man with nails bitten to the quick like this. ‘But where Charm is and where she says she is are not always the same thing,’ he’s saying as Bobby and the others come crashing over.

‘Strewth.’ George throws himself backwards, raises his hands in exaggerated horror. ‘Ricky… how many of you are there?’

Bobby stands panting. ‘So stupid to just run off like that, Erica.’

An untidy pile of people and baggage spreads around the tables; there’s a clamour for drinks and the loo.

‘Christ on a bloody bike,’ George mutters to me. ‘Is Charmian supposed to be responsible for this whole mob?’

‘There’s just five of us for the house,’ I reassure him as he tears again at his nail. ‘The Swedes have somewhere. And I think most of the Americans have rooms at the art school.’

I motion the others closer. ‘Last thing this island needs is a load more pissant painters and pansy poets,’ George grumbles.

‘Bobby’s here to paint, as are Edie and Janey,’ I say, trying not to giggle. ‘And this is Jimmy; he’s a poet but not a pansy one. He’s been published in Ambit .’ I haven’t been able to stop myself boasting about my boyfriend’s poem but as usual Jimmy makes light of it. George pulls on a cigarette, screws up his face.

‘It’s never the poor kids turning up here, is it? Now, why the bloody hell might that be?’ he says, eyeing us through the smoke. ‘All these young Orphics with things to paint and write and sing about. It’s only ever the ones with a nice bouncy safety net back home.’

I start to protest but now George remembers Bobby from London and launches himself at him.

At the same time, the Swedes, Albin and Ivar, are deep in conversation about the number of rooms in the house they’ve been lent and Edie and Janey are pulling chairs to their table. George is guffawing while he regales Bobby with an unlikely tale involving the staircase at Palace Court.

‘You slid straight off the banister and knocked my mate Peter Finch flying, then had the bloody cheek to run back and ask for his autograph.’

Bobby is torn between defending his younger self to George, and Edie who, judging by her body language, seems to be veering towards a room with the Swedes. He excuses himself to reclaim her.

‘Of course, Mr Finch didn’t object to my wife’s consequential laying on of ice packs,’ George says. ‘He has quite a thing for her.’

‘Haven’t we all,’ Patrick agrees, and his eyes turn to a man who saunters in from a side street in a red shirt and frayed shorts. The man is small and muscular with the looks of an ageing cherub. His hair is thick and blond and a mat of golden curls escapes his mostly unbuttoned rag of a shirt. He pulls up a chair beside the girls, twirling a single white flower between his teeth.

‘Bloody hell. The day only gets better. Why does he keep coming back?’ George says, crashing his glass to the table. ‘He’s like a dog that has to keep turning around to sniff his own shit.’

The man is introducing himself to Edie and Janey, his French accent strong, his smile slow and bright.

Patrick is gathering his papers. ‘A boat that brings Jean-Claude Maurice brings a boatload of trouble,’ he groans from beneath the weight of the world. ‘Anyway, my typewriter awaits. Nancy says she’s got enough eggs for an omelette if Charm isn’t back and you and the kids need fodder later…’

The American students hover, seeking directions to the art school, and George points up the cliff and sends them sloping off towards the Tombazi Mansion with their luggage rolls and easels, the girls with horsetails swinging, the boys in blue jeans, one with a guitar strapped to his back.

‘I hope they realise how lucky they are,’ George says, watching them go. ‘You know, sometimes I imagine good old Admiral Tombazi coming spinning from his grave at what goes on beneath his classical porticos. And the monkey splat that passes for art…’ George is coughing into his handkerchief. ‘A right load of Pollocks and Twomblys.’

Drinks have arrived; my first retsina almost makes me gag.

‘I don’t suppose any of you have any of the rags from London?’ George looks from face to face without satisfaction. ‘Charm might have asked you to bring the TLS if she knew you were coming?’

Jimmy springs to life, dives into his rucksack, certain he’s hung on to the new issue of London Magazine . George’s glass is empty again. He has taken to shredding a matchstick while Jimmy rummages for the prize.

‘It’s got some unpublished Wyatt poems,’ Jimmy is saying, emerging triumphant, but now George has the seedy French cherub in his sights. He taps another cigarette from his pack.

‘So, about the house…’ I try again, but I’ve lost him as the Frenchman stares straight back at him, white stem twirling.