Sofka Zinovieff - Putney

‘Are you jealous?’ she said and he laughed, pulling her into an embrace, nestling his nose in her hair and inhaling deeply. Nuts, squirrels, summer-green trees. In normal circumstances it would be easy to get carried away; the opportunities presented by an empty house were tempting. But they would miss the bus. ‘Control yourself, man!’ he muttered as though to himself, but to indicate his desire. He cleared his throat, as though changing emotional gear. ‘Are we off then?’ Mustering a bluff, scoutmaster tone, he detached himself. ‘All present and correct? Passport? Swimming costume? Sola topi? Clean underwear?’

‘OK.’ She looked like a child today. Where was the wicked teenager he was accustomed to?

He heaved the soldier’s kitbag on to his shoulder. ‘What the hell have you got in here?’ It was surprisingly heavy. She laughed and they walked out of the house and up the steps on to the train-bridge. His pace was less buoyant now. The kitbag dug into his shoulder and the increasing heat of another boiling day was making him sweat. But seeing Daphne’s light step by his side kept his spirits high and the prospect of this time together was creating an electric excitement.

‘Dysentery-drain-coloured today, I’d say.’ He indicated the gravy-brown river that was emptying itself out towards the sea and heading for low tide.

The Tube was crowded with people travelling to work and they stood by the door, bags propped up, fingers touching as if by accident as they held on to the warm metal handrail. She wore a thin blue dress that showed the outline of her pointed breasts. Her arms were already brown from London sunshine, her eyes were lined with black, and an assortment of silver bangles emitted small tinkling sounds. ‘Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, she shall have music wherever she goes,’ he sang quietly into her ear and winked.

When discussing the matter with the relevant adults, he had defended his choice of the Magic Bus to Athens on the basis of it being cheap (under £30) and fun. Actually, the real motivation was the prospect of having three undiluted days sitting with his love and not needing to deal with anyone else. However, boarding the small, dilapidated vehicle at Victoria Coach Station brought a depressing burst of realisation that the journey was going to involve much more than merely proximity to Daphne. The driver and another man who turned out to be the second driver were leaning up against the outside of the bus, smoking and arguing in Greek. They didn’t appear to speak English and gestured carelessly to where luggage could be stowed.

Many of the seats were already occupied by a predominantly young, unwashed but colourful collection of people who seemed to know what they were doing; Indian bedspreads rolled into pillows, bags of fruit, battered water canteens. He grabbed two seats behind a heavy, middle-aged Greek woman and a youth who was evidently her son, and who leaned away from her towards the window as if he wanted to break through it.

By the time the bus was loaded and pulled out on to the street, there was already an animal reek of humanity, despite the open windows. The vibrant chatter of the travellers was overlaid by Greek music turned up loud – a rudely honking clarinet and a male singer whose misery was so vocal you thought he might start sobbing. Ralph winced then smiled. A voodoo assemblage of beads, Orthodox saints, crucifixes and evil eyes was hanging off the driver’s mirror. The woman in front of them opened a plastic box reeking of meat and garlic. She was pressing the boy to eat – evidently a never-ending maternal–filial dialogue, as he repeatedly refused her offerings and she only waited a short time before pleading once more.

Ralph traced outlines with one finger on the side of Daphne’s thigh, careful that nobody could see him, though he quickly realised that no one was interested. The story they’d concocted about him being her uncle taking her to join the family in Greece was manifestly unnecessary in the face of this seething mass of people. They were merging like elements in a single organism, contained within the bus’s tinny membrane.

The domineering mother offered slices of pie through the gap in the seats and Ralph thanked her so warmly that her face transformed into something almost attractive. Keep her sweet, he thought. If there’s trouble from anyone it’d be from this Greek mama. Daphne took a small nibble and grimaced. ‘Ugh. Spinach.’ She looked like a toddler about to have a tantrum.

‘Oh, eat your greens!’ He gave her leg a small playful slap. ‘Don’t forget Popeye – you need your beautiful muscles.’

Daphne didn’t let on that she spoke Greek, though she whispered translations of the absurd conversations that took place ahead of them. Over the next days they laughed heartlessly at the miseries of poor Yannakis (‘Little John’), whose mother had come to collect him from university, not trusting him to make it alone. As the maternal humiliations continued, the boy sank progressively lower into his seat until he almost disappeared.

The passengers dispersed on to the ferry for the crossing to Calais and there was a new, more relaxed atmosphere when everyone returned to the bus at the port, like rejoining a party. Two young men across the aisle from them passed around a joint and Ralph took a quick drag, holding his breath to keep the smoke in, and then laughing and releasing it when Daphne held out her hand to take her turn.

‘Just a tiny puff?’ she wheedled, seeing his expression.

‘No, Daff, I don’t think so. You’re too young.’

‘OK, Uncle Ralph. You know best. And you set such a good example.’

‘Oh go on then, but just a very little one.’ She coughed before she could inhale properly and he quickly passed it back to the owner.

A couple who had been locked in furious embrace on the way to Dover lay down at the back of the aisle, covered themselves with a torn blanket and went for it, thrusting unashamedly as animals. The second driver was laid out snoring just above them on the back row of seats and didn’t wake during the spectacle. Ralph veered between shock and curiosity. Initially, he tried to prevent Daphne from witnessing the scene, but when she eventually noticed, he was turned on by her avid attention to the eternal rhythms being played out, as they bowled along French provincial roads, the lines of trees creating strobe-like flashes.

Daphne went to sleep leaning against him as he stroked her hair. He was so alive, he was fizzing, his mind light, his body alert. Nothing about what they were doing was wrong; quite the reverse, it was as right as anything in the universe could be. Otherwise it wouldn’t feel as if everything fitted together, as if the planets had all aligned and were beaming down on them alone. He realised that others might not understand their unusual relationship, but this only indicated that it could be added to the long list of literary and actual lovers who were forced into shadowy hiding places. There was only beauty in this thing that had engulfed them.

He woke to find himself comfortably slumped in her lap and was touched to observe that she’d placed a scarf under his head. Periodically, the battered bus stopped and they bought drinks and sandwiches and did jumping exercises to stretch their legs. Daphne accepted a cigarette from the ‘copulating couple’, as they’d named them, and stood smoking in the radiant red skies of the sunset, proud as a young lioness surveying her territory. He wanted her to stay like that – untameable and unconstrained by adult rules.

After dark, they cocooned themselves under a cotton blanket and he kissed her long and slow, stroking her until he groaned from frustration, his cock pressing painfully against his trousers. Daphne laughed, though he could tell she wanted more too. The bumping bus had a lulling quality to it and, at a certain point, Daphne appeared to tire of his tender attentions and pulled herself up the seat, removing his hand. What must it be like, he wondered, to be a female with the mysterious ability to be aroused and then grow tired of it? So different from boys, with our aim-and-fire simplicity, even when we are half-mad with love.