Page 45 of Old Girls Go Greek
‘I don’t care,’ I said, ‘I’m just enjoying myself. Isn’t that what holidays are supposed to be all about?’
He nodded.
‘She will ask why we signed up for a painting tour when we obviously aren’t doing anything remotely artistic. So, what are you getting out of it?’ I said, suddenly bold.
He didn’t speak for a moment and was obviously thinking very carefully about what to say in response to this. It made me feel uneasy, as though I was treading on dangerous territory.
‘I haven’t had a proper holiday for a while,’ he said at last. ‘I was – well, I was away for a long time, and then when I came back I had a few issues I had to deal with.’
‘You were in a Guatemalan prison for armed robbery?’ I said with a grin.
He chuckled and his face relaxed again. ‘No, nothing like that, I can assure you. It’s just sometimes – I don’t know, one falls out of the habit of thinking of a trip abroad as an actual holiday.’
Ah, yes, I remembered, of course, the Médecins Sans Frontières years, mentioned on Wikipedia.
‘This is the first time I have enjoyed a holiday for years,’ I said. ‘I don’t know why exactly. Just the freedom to do what I like, go where I like, think what I like.’
I accompanied the last few words with a jaunty wave of my breadstick, like an orchestra conductor, and of course, it broke in two and half of it fell into his water glass with a splosh.
I looked at him, agonised, concerned what his reaction would be and wondering what I should do. I couldn’t exactly go delving into his water with my fingers and grab it. Malcolm would have been immensely annoyed, I knew that.
‘Gosh, I’m so sorry,’ I said.
‘Good shot.’ He chuckled and fished it out.
‘Shall I ask for a clean glass?’
‘No, no need for that,’ he said and took a sip of water. And then he fished another crumb of breadstick out and winked at me.
Such a silly little thing, but somehow it was important. I could do something daft and not be sneered at. It was a refreshing moment, and it made my poor old, battered heart sing.
The food arrived then, four waiters carrying our meals out from the kitchen with a lot of noise and bustle, and the head waiter came over to supervise them with a lot of theatrical gestures as he congratulated us on our choices and offered additional condiments and sauces.
It wasn’t like this back home; they seemed genuinely pleased to have us there, and happy with what they were doing. Perhaps they weren’t, and when they went back through the swing doors, their shoulders slumped and they resumed their grumbles and arguments. But for us, that evening, it was delightful and somehow added to the experience.
The head waiter stood there for a few moments, with a wistful smile on his face, fretting about refilling the water jugs. Did everyone have the right cutlery? Could he do anything more for us?
My pasta was delicious, just the right mixture of sweet and spicy, and although I did leave a few splatters of sauce on the tablecloth, I don’t think any landed on me.
At the other end of the table, Dennis was telling Jillian a story that the rest of us had heard several times, about his family in India. How a very important local dignitary had wanted to marry his mother and adopt the cherubic baby Dennis, and how his mother had refused because, after all, she was already married to Geoffrey and also had young Ronald to think about. But the very important local dignitary didn’t want Ronald, so it all came to nothing. And how often Dennis had wondered what might have been.
‘This tale differs every time I hear it,’ Beryl murmured. ‘If we hang around long enough it will be the Maharajah of Jaipur who wanted to adopt him. This food is absolutely marvellous, isn’t it? And yet so simple, and one almost thinks it would be possible to make it at home.’
‘Except you never cook,’ Effie said. ‘I don’t think you know how to turn the oven on.’
‘Here’s a life hack. If you don’t ever turn the oven on, you never have to worry about whether you turned it off or not,’ Beryl said. ‘I expect I could cook this if I wanted to.’
Anita thought about this. ‘But then you wouldn’t have the warm evening or the sea over your shoulder, or someone else making it and clearing up afterwards.’
‘Or the company,’ Will added.
Beryl’s eyes sparkled. ‘Yes, that’s true. And how are you enjoying yourself, Will?’
‘Very much,’ he said, turning his attention back to his steak. ‘Very much indeed.’
‘And what do you do? Are you still working?’
‘Retired, I’m glad to say,’ he said. ‘What about all of you?’
