‘Of course, it must have been so upsetting to see the effects of all that bombing and poverty. Still, how brave of you to go overseas and find work when everything would have been so topsy-turvy.’
‘I always think carrot soup needs a more full-bodied stock.’ The old woman put down her spoon, placed her hands together as if in prayer, and rested her chin on them. She peered across the table at Virginia. ‘There was nothing brave about it. I was recently married, my husband had just been appointed to a senior role at the London branch of the company, and we lived in a mews off the bloody High Street in Kensington. Real courage is leaving your home when you have nothing — no money, no contacts. That is real courage and that is real freedom.’
Virginia was floundering for a response when the old woman turned to Danny. ‘Like your mother. Martin tells me she is from Greece. Which part of Greece is she from, my dear?’
Next to Danny, Virginia slumped back in her seat.
‘Crete.’
He suddenly had the attention of everyone at the table. He hated it, wanted to escape out to the turquoise-flecked sea just visible through the trees. He spooned some soup into his mouth and the slurp of it sounded gross to his ear. The napkin fell between his legs. There was an ocean seething in his ears.
The old woman chuckled. ‘You eat like a Cretan.’
He wanted to throw the soup in her face, all over her plastic fucking gargoyle face.
It was exhausting being at the table, having to take note of where everyone was placing their drink, having to follow which piece of cutlery to use for each course, and having to remind himself not to put his elbows on the table. He watched and he followed, but he was always the first to finish his course — it seemed to take an age for the others to lift that final spoonful to their lips, and he had to tell himself not to fidget, to stay still.
By dessert, all the adults were drunk and the grandmother had been forgotten. Even Martin had drunk a glass of red wine with his meal. Danny was shocked. Martin’s cheeks were flushed — you could tell just by looking at him that alcohol was a poison. Danny refused a glass. He was finishing the last of his blueberry pie when Emma came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. She leaned down to whisper, ‘My grandmother would like you to sit with her. Let’s swap places.’ He swallowed, stood, and then, remembering how Alex had waited behind his mother until she was seated, held the chair out for Emma. He took his glass of water and sat down next to the old woman.
‘Have you been to Crete?’
Danny shook his head. He was pretending to be attentive to whatever the old lady was saying to him, but beneath the table he was slowly raising and dropping his heels, pushing against the toes of his shoes so he could feel the muscle pull, then contract.
The old woman’s hands were gnarled and white; the skin wasn’t plastic there, the skin was dying. ‘My dear, you must go. Chania is a fabulous town, truly delightful. Was your mother born on the island?’
‘No. She was born here.’ He heard how the ‘h’ had dropped off the last word. So he mouthed it to himself, He-ere.
‘Ah, so it is your grandparents who migrated. Do you know which part of Crete they are from?’
Again, he just shook his head. He didn’t want to tell her that he hadn’t seen his papou and giagia since he was six, that his mother just got exhausted from the fighting and the screaming. It just never stops, it never stops, he remembered her howling, and how scared he had been to hear it. His father had held her and said, You don’t ever have to see them again. We’re leaving. He remembered that his grandfather’s hands were enormous and that the old man wouldn’t give him a hug. He also recalled his grandmother’s hands, could only remember them with a coating of flour, like phantom gloves. He would not say any of that to the old woman sitting next to him. She had no right to any of it, none of it was for sale. You are better, he told himself, you are faster, you are stronger. You are better than all of them.
Her gaze unsettled him and he had to force himself to match it. As soon as his eyes caught hers, she looked slightly away.
‘I had the most delightful Orthodox Easter on the south coast of the island.’ She tapped the table, her lips pursed and she was, momentarily, shockingly ugly. ‘Now where was it?’ Annoyed, she tapped the table again. ‘Old age is shit.’
He didn’t know how it could be; perhaps it was the confident enunciation of each syllable, but it didn’t sound like swearing, it didn’t sound crude.
‘It doesn’t matter. We were there for the entirety of Holy Week and I remember the black-clad widows leading the procession along the cliff top on Good Friday. The chanting, the incense, everyone holding candles, the ocean booming below us — it was magical.’
The old lady’s eyes were moist. He felt that if he looked right into the black of her pupils, he might see the mirror of her memory, a candle flame and the crashing ocean.
‘Does your mother observe Orthodox Easter?’
‘Mum’s a Jehovah’s Witness.’ It just came out because he didn’t want to admit that he didn’t know what Orthodox Easter was, how it was any different from normal Easter.
The old woman’s head jerked back as if she was recoiling from something distasteful.
‘I mean she was,’ Danny said desperately. ‘She’s not a Joey anymore — she can’t stand them.’
The old woman nodded approvingly. ‘I can quite understand.’
Danny couldn’t bear how stupidly relieved he felt.
‘And your father?’
What? He caught himself just in time. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Was he a Jehovah’s Witness as well?’
‘God no, he really hates them. Dad doesn’t believe in God.’
The old woman was unmoved. ‘And he’s not Greek?’
‘My nan is Irish and my granddad is Scottish. But Dad’s an Aussie, he was born here.’
‘So it was both sets of grandparents who were the courageous ones, it seems.’
Why can’t you just leave me alone? Toes on the floor, heels up, heels down.
‘And where do you live, Danny?’
‘Reservoir.’
He wondered if she’d ever heard of it, whether she knew where it was. She sniffed and looked down at the table. For a moment he was outraged, thinking that she wanted nothing more to do with him. The year before, at Scooter’s birthday, held in a small park in Hawthorn, Scooter’s neighbour, an Indian woman with a necklace of smooth white pearls against the coffee-coloured skin of her neck, had sat down next to him and asked, ‘So you are a friend of Paul’s?’ and he had said yes, and then she had asked, looking away from him, a little bored, ‘And yes, you live in Hawthorn as well,’ not even a question, and he had replied, ‘No, I live in Reservoir,’ and she had just stood up, with her plate and her glass, and walked away from him, like he had farted, like he had sworn, like he smelled of dirty-pissy-scummy Reservoir.
But the old woman didn’t ignore him. She brought her head in close to his, till he thought their foreheads would touch, and she whispered, ‘Listen to them.’
He brought his heels to the floor.
It was twittering and fluffery and gossiping and nonsense. The ladies were magpies and the men were crows and the children were farmyard animals, and even Emma, even Martin, they were all bleating like sheep. It was empty silly noise, about schools and lawyers and stocks and college and shopping. It was crap, it was shit. Across the table, Alex, who wasn’t prattling on, wasn’t jibbering and jabbering, winked and raised a near-empty wine glass. His mother laughed softly and raised her own glass. No one else had noticed, they were too busy chattering. Alex mimed having a cigarette and stood up, set down his napkin and left the table.