Sara Alexi - The Illegal Gardener

The land is now fast approaching, the houses cascading down to the port from the pine trees on the ridge. Red-tiled roofs atop dazzling whitewashed walls. Small, contained, as ancient as Greece itself.

They are approaching with speed. Now she can clearly see the high stone wall to the left of the port entrance, capped with dots of black, a line of old cannons. She looks to the right to make out the lower wall, also sporting rusted cannons, to complete the defence. She watched a documentary about the island on television one night when business was quiet in her corner shop. It had been a wealthy port full of boat owners, shipping magnates, at one time. Pirates had invaded, so the islanders slung a chain across the harbour entrance, from cannon to cannon. The heavy chain dipped beneath the waves to catch on the keels of the invading boats, giving the islanders time to load and fire the cannons at will.

Marina half-wishes the chain were in place now so that their keel might be caught, ensuring their return to the mainland. She thinks about her shop, with familiar faces coming and going, and routines that seldom vary. Childhood friends who became parents, who now come in with their grandchildren. Time standing still until you look in the mirror.

The captain is singing Queen’s ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’ at the top of his voice. He has slid from his elevation and is all but dancing as he steers. He lets go of the wheel for a full spin before slicking his hair back and continuing towards the port.

Marina laughs, her eyes sparkling. The man turns to smile at her and offers his hand for a dance. She waves him away. He grins.

She hears voices, an American twang, and looks about her through the salt-streaked plastic windows. A sailing yacht with crew on deck in bright swimwear, with pasty white limbs. They wave and laugh and the captain sounds his compressed-air horn in one loud, rude blast, and he sings all the louder. The day-trippers laugh and wave more vigorously. The captain smooths his hair.

The cannons are nearly above them now. They have reached the entrance to the harbour. The captain shuts down the engine and their speed drops to a lulling chug. The bouncing becomes wallowing, everything calm. Only Marina’s stomach churns.

To Marina’s excitement she can see, in the entrance to the harbour, the long blue water boat that featured in the documentary. The programme said the island has no water of its own, so it is shipped in every day in a big blue tanker. They interviewed some of the crew. When it is full, Marina recalls, it sits so low in the water that the decks are awash, but when it is empty it bobs like a cork. She surveys the low deck to see if she can see the men who were interviewed, but the ship is unmanned. Her straining neck relaxes and her body slumps a little as her attention wanes. The boat doesn’t look as exciting at it had on the television.

She expected the harbour would not have changed much but she is surprised by mayhem, shouts, tangled anchors and the cluster of vessels, some of them huge. Million-dollar yachts tied to the quay next to tiny speedboats, chartered sailing yachts next to private gin palaces. The harbour is heaving. The early birds have moored themselves in stern-first, up against the port wall; the late-comers bow-first, nuzzling in between those that are safely harboured, adding a line where they can, tying one to another, three vessels deep in some places. There is scarcely any room left to manoeuvre in the middle of the port.

With the engine idling, Marina can hear some Athenians on their day-sailing yacht asking permission to cross an expensive-looking schooner, to make their way to shore. There is no response to their Greek request, and they speak again in a strong, accented English. The Asian in uniform on the schooner waves them across, the sea their joint pleasure, and mutual fear, levelling all social boundaries. The sound these calls make, Marina decides, is a happy one, and she smiles.

It is just possible for Marina to see the island’s fishing boats, tiny traditional wooden crafts, double-ended, tightly squeezed into a corner. An arch through the high pier gives them access to the sea, allowing them to bypass the hordes of pleasure boats.

Marina and her captain have all but stopped, and he is manoeuvring them carefully alongside the area reserved for taxi boats and the commercial hydrofoils, the ‘Flying Dolphins’. Once lined up, he jumps onto the land and makes fast to an iron ring set into the stone quayside before descending to help Marina with her bag. Marina hesitates and struggles to gain her balance. She toys with the idea of paying double and returning immediately, but feels this would be foolish.

‘Next time, I will play only Greek music and we will stop halfway across and dance,’ the captain laughs.

Marina hauls herself onto shore and rummages in her big bag to find a smaller bag from which she takes her purse.

‘You will do no such thing!’ Marina pays him, with a grin.

‘When we are halfway across, who will stop us?’

Marina giggles and the years drop away, their age difference suspended. The man smiles and jumps back aboard his boat to answer a radio call. Seat bobbing, he revs the engine and is away with a wink and a wave.

Marina puts her purse away, takes a deep breath and looks up, her smile fading. The town is all still there, just as it was then. The stumpy clock tower, the impressive Venetian mansions. She tries to claim her thoughts by recalling what the documentary said about the ship owners bringing such wealth to the island, but the facts won’t be recalled. The port has changed in some respects since her last visit. The wide walkway around the port is now a mass of cafés, with chairs and tables to the water’s edge. Where she is standing is very busy, every chair taken, the spaces between full of suitcases, as people, yawning at this early hour, wait to move on.

‘Marina?’

Marina turns to the sea of people, a smile of habitual response brightening her face.

‘Marina, over here!’

Marina sees a woman, waving, who looks vaguely familiar.

‘Marina, do you remember me?’

‘Hello!’ Marina smiles as she recalls the woman’s face; she had come into her shop in the village one day, a while ago, not this summer anyway. Now, what had she bought? Ah yes! Two bottles of wine (in glass, mind you, not the local stuff in plastic bottles), bread and eggs, before declaring that she and her husband were lost. They had stayed for ages chatting, her husband interpreting. Wasn’t this the American couple? She had brought in chairs from the back to make them more comfortable. Lovely people. Yes, they chatted so long that when they left she forgot to ask them to pay. He was called Bill… but what was her name?

‘I cannot believe you are here! I mean, what are the odds? Do you know, we were trying to work out if we could pass by your shop this time around, but I am not sure we even remember where it is. We felt so bad. Did you realise we forgot to pay?’ She looks expectantly at Marina.

‘No speak English.’ Marina is glad of a lifetime of American films and the occasional tourist in the shop. She understands English fairly well but she struggles to speak it. She uses her lack of fluency to avoid embarrassing the woman over the money. A man approaches from inside the café, wiping his hands on his white shorts.

‘Bill, look who I’ve found.’

‘Come on, dear, the boat is coming. Oh, Marina!’ He continues clumsily in Greek. ‘How fortuitous. Do you know we left without paying you? We’ve felt terrible.’ He scrabbles in his money belt and hands Marina a note. It is far more than they owe. Marina waves it away, but the man insists and tucks it into her bag. ‘What on earth are you doing here? I thought you never left your little village? ’