Sofka Zinovieff - Putney

It hurt but she didn’t make a noise.

‘I’ll be careful,’ he whispered, moving more gently now he was inside. She gripped his shoulders.

‘You OK?’

‘Mm.’

‘Should I stop?’

She shook her head. It felt strange, this big thing right inside her. Big but fine. She observed the scene as though from above, pleased but detached, noting the intensity of Ralph’s pleasure. His mouth pressed against hers and then, ‘Christ…’ He arched upwards. ‘Daphne, I…’ The sentence never finished. He pulled out and made a noise that sounded like disappointment or pain, but was obviously Vesuvius.

‘Oh my God!’ He exhaled as though shocked by what they’d done. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yeah.’ She looked at him, but he was already retreating. ‘You?’

‘Unbelievably, incredibly, blissfully well.’ His breathing slowed as he lay beside her and before long he was asleep. So there we are, she thought. I did it. It’s lost. That’s good.

The bedroom window was open and through the slatted green shutters she could still hear the far-off disco beat throbbing in the darkness. It took her ages to get to sleep but she didn’t mind. It was an unusual luxury to spend the night in a bed with him. She put her arm across his chest and, pushing up close, smelled soap and sweat from his armpit, the warm, vanilla skin of his neck and the animal fur of his hair.

When she woke, the bedroom was striped with bright daylight slicing through the gaps in the shutters. Ralph wasn’t there. Crouching motionless on the floor was a grasshopper, the size of a well-nourished mouse. It was a similar non-committal yellow to the shrivelled rubber that lay next to it. Ralph came into the room, a towel wrapped around him like a loincloth.

‘You OK, Daff?’

She smiled but didn’t reply, following his gaze to a dried bloodstain on the sheet. It was uncomfortable to see this evidence – exposing.

‘Oh! Oh dear.’ She got up, pulling bedclothes over the offending area. ‘No. Yes, I’m fine.’ She pointed at the large, spiky insect. ‘But what about him?’

‘Christ, it’s a monster.’ He leaped up on to the mattress next to her and, as if in response, the armoured creature moved towards them unhurriedly but efficiently as a mechanical toy, and ratcheted itself up the cast-iron bed leg. Daphne screamed.

‘I’ll get a broom from the kitchen,’ he said and ran out.

While he was gone, she quickly pulled the dirty sheet off and took it with her to the bathroom, holding the bloodied part under the tap. She scrubbed at it but a mark remained – a faded brownish proof of the night before. It reminded her of Bluebeard’s wife with the bloody key, rubbing sand in desperation, unable to remove the red evidence that would betray her curiosity about the forbidden rooms. She half-filled the bath with water and threw in the whole sheet. The previous summer, Evgenia, her older girl cousin, had described the tradition of hanging the bridal sheet from a balcony the morning after the nuptial deflowering. ‘The whole village would come to take a look. Frightful.’

When she returned, Ralph was sitting on the bed, holding the broom, triumphant as St George with his spear, having just killed the dragon. ‘That took some doing,’ he said proudly. ‘He refused to die. He leaped from the bed right up on to the wardrobe. But I got him in the end.’

‘Where did you put it?’ She didn’t want to see the yellow corpse and noted that the rubber Johnny was gone too.

‘Straight out of the window and into the bushes.’ He smiled heroically. ‘Right, I’m off to get breakfast going.’

When she joined him in the kitchen he had already made coffee and was slicing a melon. ‘My darling girl. Come here.’ He gripped her shoulders in an almost avuncular way, kissing her forehead as if anointing the non-virgin.

‘Do I look different?’ She laughed.

‘Transformed by love. More exquisite than ever.’

The coffee was strong and she struggled to drink it, even with dollops of Nounou evaporated milk. In truth, she hated coffee, but she viewed the habit as a challenge, believing that if she was able to smoke and drink alcohol, not to mention doing what she liked with a man, then surely coffee should not confound her. It was shaming to drink milk for breakfast at her age. She wanted to be the sort of person who needed the dark, poisonous-tasting liquid first thing in the morning, perhaps with a cigarette; someone like her mother.

As she gave up on the coffee and spread honey on a slice of bread, the house telephone rang, loud and improbable. They looked at one another puzzled, then alarmed, as though they’d been caught.

‘Don’t answer. It’s probably for your grandmother.’ Sure enough the ringing stopped and they continued their breakfast. It wasn’t long, however, before there was a knock at the door and a woman’s voice calling for Daphne.

‘Fuck, shit, bugger, wanker!’

Daphne managed a smile. ‘I think it’s kyria Lemonia.’

‘Bloody bastard, bollocks, cunt, arse,’ Ralph continued with a grimace.

‘What shall we do?’ She was tempted to ignore this intrusion, to sneak upstairs and hide until it was over. Perhaps her grandmother’s housekeeper would leave. The knocking continued and the strident voice was clearly audible. ‘Daphnoula, I need to speak to you.’ By the time Daphne had traipsed into the courtyard towards the door, kyria Lemonia was letting herself in; she must have had a spare key.

‘Ah, thank goodness, praise the Lord.’ She crossed herself three times, resting a weathered hand on her chest. ‘I didn’t know what I’d do.’ She sniffed and wiped a tear away, smoothing hair that was pulled into a tight, grey bun.

Daphne waited, observing the wiry-framed woman she’d known all her life. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Ah, my sweet.’ She came towards her and took Daphne’s hand. ‘Condolences, my dear. Your beloved Pappou has died. Life to you. May we remember him.’

Daphne’s first reaction was relief that it wasn’t something worse; her grandfather had been unwell for as long as she could remember. Poor old Pappou , with his lopsided face, tear-leaking eyes and sluggish drawl that mangled words. She was always impressed that he’d been born in the last year of the nineteenth century. So he was seventy-seven. It was sad, but not a disaster. However, no words came, as if she was hollowed out and struck dumb. Kyria Lemonia embraced her and then held her at arm’s length. ‘He was an honourable man.’

Daphne wondered how she could keep Ralph out of this, but the chill of planning how to explain what she and her lover were doing on Aegina was quickly supplanted by a hot rush of guilt at her heartlessness.

‘You must sit down. You’ve gone pale. Let’s go inside.’ The bird-like old woman put her arm around Daphne and led her through to the kitchen, helping her to a chair. Ralph stood up, but despite his best efforts it was apparent that kyria Lemonia was nonplussed to find a half-naked man taking breakfast with young Daphnoula.

‘ Kalimera ,’ she said without a smile.

‘Good morning,’ he replied.

‘And your other friend? Is she here?’ she said in Greek.

Daphne suspected that everyone on Aegina already knew there wasn’t another person with them – this was a small island. ‘No. My friend Jane had to go. This is my uncle.’ She turned to Ralph. ‘My grandfather died.’

‘Oh!’ He stood rooted, awkward, unable to come to her. ‘I’m so sorry.’ By now, Daphne was crying. He knows we’re in deep shit, she thought, as he looked at her, trying to understand. How will we work this one out?

‘Now, my Daphne, you need to call your mama. She tried to ring the house but there was no answer. She’s so worried. I have a number in France here.’ Kyria Lemonia produced a scrap of paper with a laboriously long number and ‘ΕΛΛΗ’ in blue biro capitals. Her eyes were flitting round the kitchen as if the bizarre presence of a bare-chested man at the table implied there might be a stowaway in the cupboard. Daphne went into the hall to the small table where the phone was kept, sat on the hard chair by its side and dialled.