‘Why young?’ pondered Mr. Roberts. ‘You’d have thought experience would have been essential for such a delicate task.’
‘Apparently not,’ said Mrs. Roberts. ‘Herekes are woven by those with young eyes which can discern intricate patterns sometimes no larger than a pinpoint and with up to nine hundred knots a square inch. Such a carpet,’ continued Margaret, ‘can cost as much as fifteen, even twenty thousand pounds.’
‘And at the other end of the scale? Carpets woven in old leftover wool by old leftover women?’ suggested Christopher interrogatively.
‘No doubt,’ said Margaret. ‘But even for our humble purse there are some simple guidelines to follow.’
Christopher leaned over so that he could be sure to take in every word above the roar of the engines.
‘The muted reds and blues with a green base are considered classic and are much admired by Turkish collectors, but one should avoid the bright yellows and oranges,’ read his wife aloud. ‘And never consider a carpet that displays animals, birds or fishes, as they are produced only to satisfy Western tastes.’
‘Don’t they like animals?’
‘I don’t think that’s the point,’ said Margaret. ‘The Sunni Muslims, who are the country’s religious rulers, don’t approve of graven images. But if we search diligently round the bazaars we should still be able to come across a bargain for a few hundred pounds.’
‘What a wonderful excuse to spend all day in the bazaars.’
Margaret smiled, before continuing, ‘But listen. It’s most important to bargain. The opening price the dealer offers is likely to be double what he expects to get and treble what the carpet is worth.’ She looked up from her book. ‘If there’s any bargaining to be done it will have to be carried out by you, my dear. They’re not used to that sort of thing at Marks & Spencer.’
Christopher smiled.
‘And finally,’ continued his wife, turning a page of her book, ‘if the dealer offers you coffee you should accept. It means he expects the process to go on for some time as he enjoys the bargaining as much as the sale.’
‘If that’s the case they had better have a very large pot percolating for us,’ said Christopher as he closed his eyes and began to contemplate the pleasures that awaited him. Margaret only closed her book on carpets when the plane touched down at Istanbul airport, and at once opened file number one, entitled ‘Pre-Turkey.’
‘A shuttle bus should be waiting for us at the north side of the terminal. It will take us on to the local flight,’ Margaret assured her husband as she carefully wound her watch forward two hours.
The Robertses were soon following the stream of passengers heading in the direction of passport control. The first people they saw in front of them were the same middle-aged couple they had assumed were destined for more exotic shores.
‘Wonder where they’re heading,’ said Christopher.
‘Istanbul Hilton, I expect,’ said Margaret as they climbed into a vehicle that had been declared redundant by the Glasgow Corporation Bus Company some twenty years before. It spluttered out black exhaust fumes as it revved up before heading off in the direction of the local THY flight.
The Robertses soon forgot all about Mr. and Mrs. Kendall-Hume once they looked out of the little airplane windows to admire the west coast of Turkey highlighted by the setting sun. The plane landed in the port of Izmir just as the shimmering red ball disappeared behind the highest hill. Another bus, even older than the earlier one, ensured that the Robertses reached their little guesthouse just in time for late supper.
Their room was tiny but clean and the owner much in the same mold. He greeted them both with exaggerated gesturing and a brilliant smile which augured well for the next twenty-one days.
Early the following morning, the Robertses checked over their detailed plans for Day One in file number two. They were first to collect the rented Fiat that had already been paid for in England, before driving off into the hills to the ancient Byzantine fortress at Selcuk in the morning, to be followed by the Temple of Diana in the afternoon if they still had time.
After breakfast had been cleared away and they had cleaned their teeth, the Robertses left the guesthouse a few minutes before nine. Armed with their hire car form and guidebook, they headed off for Beyazik’s Garage where their promised car awaited them. They strolled down the cobbled streets past the little white houses, enjoying the sea breeze until they reached the bay. Christopher spotted the sign for Beyazik’s Garage when it was still a hundred yards ahead of them.
As they passed the magnificent yachts moored alongside the harbor, they tested each other on the nationality of each flag, feeling not unlike the ‘offspring’ completing a geography test.
‘Italian, French, Liberian, Panamanian, German. There aren’t many British boats,’ said Christopher, sounding unusually patriotic, the way he always did, Margaret reflected, the moment they were abroad.
She stared at the rows of gleaming hulls lined up like buses in Piccadilly during the rush hour; some of the boats were even bigger than buses. ‘I wonder what kind of people can possibly afford such luxury?’ she asked, not expecting a reply.
‘Mr. and Mrs. Roberts, isn’t it?’ shouted a voice from behind them. They both turned to see a now-familiar figure dressed in a white shirt and white shorts, wearing a hat that made him look not unlike the ‘Bird’s Eye’ captain, waving at them from the bow of one of the bigger yachts.
‘Climb on board, me hearties,’ Mr. Kendall-Hume declared enthusiastically, more in the manner of a command than an invitation.
Reluctantly the Robertses walked the gangplank.
‘Look who’s here,’ their host shouted down a large hole in the middle of the deck. A moment later Mrs. Kendall-Hume appeared from below, dressed in a diaphanous orange sarong and a matching bikini top. ‘It’s Mr. and Mrs. Roberts — you remember, from Malcolm’s school.’
Kendall-Hume turned back to face the dismayed couple. ‘I don’t remember your first names, but this is Melody and I’m Ray.’
‘Christopher and Margaret,’ admitted Mr. Roberts as handshakes were exchanged.
‘What about a drink? Gin, vodka or...?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Margaret. ‘Thank you very much, we’ll both have an orange juice.’
‘Suit yourselves,’ said Ray Kendall-Hume. ‘You must stay for lunch.’
‘But we couldn’t impose...’
‘I insist,’ said Mr. Kendall-Hume. ‘After all, we’re on holiday. By the way, we’ll be going over to the other side of the bay for lunch. There’s one hell of a beach there, and it will give you a chance to sunbathe and swim in peace.’
‘How considerate of you,’ said Christopher.
‘And where’s young Malcolm?’ asked Margaret.
‘He’s on a scouting holiday in Scotland. Doesn’t like to mess about in boats the way we do.’
For the first time he could recall, Christopher felt some admiration for the boy. A moment later the engine started thunderously.
On the trip across the bay, Ray Kendall-Hume expounded his theories about ‘having to get away from it all.’ ‘Nothing like a yacht to ensure your privacy and not having to mix with the hoi polloi.’ He only wanted the simple things in life: the sun, the sea and an infinite supply of good food and drink.
The Robertses could have asked for nothing less. By the end of the day they were both suffering from a mild bout of sunstroke and were also feeling a little seasick. Despite white pills, red pills and yellow pills, liberally supplied by Melody, when they finally got back to their room that night they were unable to sleep.
Avoiding the Kendall-Humes over the next twenty days did not prove easy. Beyazik’s, the garage where their little hire car awaited them each morning and to which it had to be returned each night, could only be reached via the quayside where the Kendall-Humes’ motor yacht was moored like an insuperable barrier at a gymkhana. Hardly a day passed that the Robertses did not have to spend some part of their precious time bobbing up and down on Turkey’s choppy coastal waters, eating oily food and discussing how large a carpet would be needed to fill the Kendall-Humes’ front room.