Page 8 of Old Girls Go Greek
‘I’m pushing seventy,’ Beryl said, ‘and Effie is sixty-eight.’
‘Oh, thanks for telling everyone. And not in my head I’m not,’ Effie said. ‘I always thought getting to be this old would take much longer. I prefer to think I’m thirty-five plus post and packing charges. In fact, I’m a thirty-five-year-old trapped in a sixty-eight-year-old’s body.’
‘In which case perhaps you should get someone to put a couple of darts in,’ Beryl snorted, earning herself a light slap on the shoulder from her sister.
‘I’m nearly sixty-five,’ I said, feeling perhaps for the first time that it wasn’t something to be embarrassed about.
‘Then you qualify too,’ Anita said kindly. ‘I will put your application forward to the president. Juliette’s on holiday at the moment, in Ibiza.’
‘Her husband wanted to go to Scotland, didn’t he?’ Beryl said.
‘And yet – there they are in Ibiza,’ Anita replied with a knowing look.
Beryl pulled her shoes back on and stood up.
‘Right, now then, I thought we were going to get a late lunch and a drink?’
‘You’re the one holding us up. We could all die of thirst waiting for you,’ Effie said.
Anita and I exchanged a look as we followed the sisters along the road.
‘Are they always like this?’ I whispered.
Anita nodded. ‘Sometimes worse. It’s marvellous.’
We started walking along the dusty track beside the sea, passing a couple of wine bars and cafés, all of which looked perfectly splendid to me. Eventually after much discussion, we went into a place decorated with white plastic pillars and garlands of artificial flowers, where we were welcomed by several very handsome waiters with such enthusiasm that it almost seemed their lives had been meaningless up to that point. This in itself made a lovely change from the service I had come to expect, where the sight of four older women was usually met with eye rolling, sighing and a table next to the toilets.
‘Lovely ladies, I am Yanni. I will lead to you the best table. A view of the sea, plenty of shade, and wonderful food. But first a drink? I have beautiful white wine from my brother’s vineyard. Nectar of the gods.’
‘You’re my type of guy,’ Beryl said, rewarding him with a brilliant smile.
‘Down, tiger,’ Effie murmured, ‘we talked about this. Remember Dubrovnik? And Padua?’
‘Do you really have to remember everything?’ Beryl said.
Effie snorted. ‘Well, one of us has to.’
Yanni brought us a carafe of white wine and four green recycled glasses which were filled while we juggled with the massive, laminated menus.
‘A toast to us,’ Anita said, and we clinked our glasses over the table.
Well, this was fun. I felt more excited and happier than I had for months. Perhaps it was the warmth of the Greek sunshine, the blue of the Mediterranean shimmering in front of me, or maybe it was the company of my three new friends. The wonderful realisation that I had no pressing problems or tedious chores to attend to.
My life recently had been filled with those sorts of things. Finding someone to go up a ladder and clean out the gutters, rewriting my will, trying to sort out the broadband, washing out the recycling bin where apparently a new life form had developed. It turned out to be the remains of a lasagne which my daughter had put in there by mistake.
‘I’m going to have something properly Greek,’ Effie said. ‘Calamari or moussaka. That sort of thing.’
‘I want a real Greek salad,’ I said. ‘I bet it’s nothing like we get at home.’
‘A rare steak, which is what Maria Callas liked,’ Beryl said, ‘although she never finished one. Just used to cut it up and push it around her plate.’
‘You met her?’ Anita said.
Beryl shrugged. ‘Once or twice. She had absolutely beautiful eyes. I went with David Frost to interview her in the seventies. Now then, shall we order?’
‘Good heavens, David Frost? What was he like?’
Beryl looked wistful for a moment and then she gave a little smile.
