Sofka Zinovieff - Putney

The years of easy friendship had transformed with shocking rapidity into love. A couple of months before her thirteenth birthday, she woke up and said aloud to herself, ‘I’m in love.’ Almost like a decision or a spell. Of course, she loved him before that. But this overwhelming emotion that dominated everything else and coloured each moment was only six months old. Desire thrashed about blindly – powerful and chaotic as a bull escaped from the arena. These were longings she didn’t know how to control or follow through.

Ralph said he’d search out some coffee and she pulled her diary from her bag. She made at least one entry each day in the blue hardback notebook from Smith’s, decorated in biro with skull and crossbones and threats of revenge to snoopers. As she flicked through pages covered in doodles and drawings she pondered how to write about ‘Vesuvius’ without it sounding disgusting. She momentarily recalled the flasher who opened his coat as she walked along Barnabas Road one afternoon when she had just started at Hayfield. It had been her first sight of an erect penis, emerging like an angry, red animal from the man’s trousers and pointing its bald head at her.

Thinking back to Ralph’s orgasm, she realised she was not sure whether she had ever had one herself. How exactly could you tell? It was clear that she could be engulfed by longing. At times, this was so powerful that everything else became irrelevant and annoying – mosquitoes distracting from the only thing that mattered. The world shrank, so only she and Ralph existed and all she needed was his embrace – hot breath, deep kisses, his weight pressed against her. Nothing else. However, when it came down to her own body’s mechanics, she was less clear. She had read about women ‘coming’, about vaginal spasms, but this wasn’t something she had discussed with anyone. Ralph didn’t provide words for what they did together.

He returned carrying a plastic cup of Nescafé, a carton of Choco Milk for her and two toasted sandwiches.

‘My God, food tastes good when you’re at sea.’ He ate fast, standing on the lower rung of the rails, looking out towards the distant outline of the island with its pointed mountain. She nibbled at the melted cheese and ham, leaving the crusts, and watching him. He moved constantly, giving the impression of an impatient boy, and she fantasised about how perfect everything would be if they were the same age, if she could fast-forward into womanhood or he could rewind to youth. Sometimes, especially when the pressure of secrecy and pretence was overwhelming, she longed to be a girl with a normal boyfriend. The previous evening, walking through Plaka, she had felt almost a physical ache from wanting to hold his hand and from refraining for fear it would not look right. If only Ralph was seventeen, she thought, picturing them as a carefree couple that could walk arm-in-arm along the street.

The salty sandwich and rich chocolate milk battled inside Daphne’s gut, resulting in an urgent need to find a toilet. She walked off casually, without explaining anything to Ralph, preferring to pretend she existed in a world free of excretion and, above all, menstruation. She had already decided never to mention her periods to him. The previous year, some time after the leafy bower, they had pricked their fingers with a needle and smeared the red drops together, swearing allegiance and eternal friendship. Afterwards, he sucked her finger clean and kissed it. ‘Everything about you is perfect,’ he said. ‘Even your blood. You know, I can be quite squeamish about it – with other people. Especially, you know, women’s…’ He didn’t finish his sentence and, still premenstrual, Daphne felt mildly superior to the bleeding females who revolted him. Six months ago, she had joined their number and now dreaded provoking his disgust.

The rise and fall of the ship on the swell was more apparent inside the cramped toilets, which smelled of engines and gloss paint. One of the two cubicles was occupied and, as Daphne locked the door and sat down, she heard a long fart followed by a stream of piss. The edge of a polished shoe was visible under the cubicle division. She froze in awkwardness at the intimacy, but there was no way to be genteel about diarrhoea. Her intestines writhed and cramped as they expelled their watery contents. She delayed emerging, hoping the other woman would depart, listening to the unhurried washing of hands, unzipping of handbag, clicking as lipstick or powder was opened and shut. Eventually, bored of hanging around, Daphne came out as a stout, elderly woman turned away from the basins to leave.

‘Daphnoula?’ Daphne understood the query in kyria Frosso’s voice. Seeing her own reflection in the mirror demonstrated to Daphne how she’d changed since they’d last met: smudged eyeliner, skimpy top with no bra, ripped shorts and mismatched earrings. Kyria Frosso looked her up and down. Last time, Daphne had been a child. Now she definitely was not. Frosso was a friend of her grandmother’s – top-heavy, with a platform of a bust encased in a short-sleeved summer suit.

‘Daphne mou . Unbelievable. How are you? Are you here with your Manoula ? Your brother? Oh how lovely.’

‘Um, no, they’re all abroad.’ To give herself time to think, she listed the disparate places where each member of her family was located. But the old woman was not distracted by the mention of Germany, France and Scotland, and Daphne knew she must explain why she was travelling alone with a man. ‘I’ve just come out to Greece with my schoolfriend Jane, and we were brought by an English uncle. He’s here on the boat. And then I’m going to my aunt’s place. And my grandmother is coming. Oh, and Jane is coming to Aegina on the next boat.’ She felt ashamed to be gabbling and creating traps for herself. Kyria Frosso looked amiably puzzled. ‘Well that’s very nice. Won’t you introduce me to your uncle?’

They progressed slowly along the deck, kyria Frosso’s shiny shoes clicking on the boards. Ralph was stretched out on the bench. His blue espadrilles off, he was rotating his feet as he jotted something down in his ‘ideas book’. He didn’t notice them until Daphne coughed and then quickly repeated her series of lies to ‘Uncle Ralph’, to put him in the picture. He jumped up and, taking kyria Frosso’s plump hand, kissed it. ‘Delighted to meet you, madam.’

‘And I am,’ she beamed.

Unfortunately, she had enough English to be able to limp along in a conversation with him. He got in first: ‘Don’t you find being at sea is one of the greatest pleasures in life? But here, in the most beautiful country in the world, it’s like heaven.’

‘So, you Daphne’s uncle?’

‘Well, my wife is Greek and she’s practically a cousin of Ellie’s, so yes, I’m her uncle. I’m joining my wife after I leave young Daphne here with her relations.’ He said it quickly, evidently hoping to lose his inquisitor’s concentration somewhere along the way, and turned to give Daphne a conspiratorial wink. ‘Now, you must tell me about Aegina. I’m sure you know the very best places to visit. The Temple of Aphaia must be first, no?’ He gazed into kyria Frosso’s face and Daphne saw how easily he had taken the focus away from the conspiracy and how the ageing lady became almost coquettish.

‘A real English tzentelman,’ she confirmed to Daphne in Greek, before returning to her companions.

Daphne was left feeling exposed and shamed. It had been bad enough having to shit so close to someone else, but to find that it was kyria Frosso turned her stomach in a different way. Ralph was more sanguine. ‘Don’t fret. Just believe in your story when you’re with her and she’ll believe it too. It works!’ They delayed disembarking, hoping to preclude another encounter, but Frosso and two portly friends were moving so slowly that they passed them on the long jetty. Kyria Frosso gave an amicable wave and called, ‘Be seeing you.’ But Daphne noticed a narrowing of her eyes, as though the old woman was doing sums in her head.