Scully floundered among them all, at parties on terraces high above the harbour, or picnics they took in big rolling caiques to Dokos or Palamidas down the other end of the island, but he learned to survive and he saw what pleasure it gave Jennifer. He didn’t need much to keep happy. He had the water, after all. He dived for octopus and walked the rugged hills with Billie. He had some space and plenty of sunlight, and a bit of work with Fotis the stonemason to keep his hands rough and the cupboard full. Maybe she was right, perhaps he was too easily contented.
On the mole at the edge of the harbour, an old man pounded an octopus, throwing it down at his feet over and over again. The water tanker tied up ready to pump its load into the town reservoir. Scully strode out along the arm of the wharf to where the little tables of the Lyko stood in the sun by the water, their plastic cloths flapping benignly. Scully hesitated a moment, took a breath. Was he imagining that sudden lull in conversations out on the terrace? He hauled Billie ahead and weaved through the door, into the smoky fug of fried feta, cigarettes, coffee and fresh bread. The furniture in here was simple and occupied. He saw the faces. In such a small place, the expats became a crowd, a nation unto themselves, and they faltered in their chatter as Scully fronted the bar.
‘Good God!’
Arthur Lipp twisted hugely on his stool and butted out his Havana. Scully felt the field of upturned faces.
‘G’day, Arthur.’
There was a long moment of discomfort and silence. Old Lotte shoved a white cat from her table and blushed gloriously. Bertie and Rory-the-Dick smiled thinly and Alvin raised his shaking hand in greeting.
‘You look terrible, me little convict mate,’ said Arthur.
Scully shrugged. Arthur rolled the dead cigar between thumb and forefinger, unnerved. A man Scully didn’t know got up and went out. At the door he seemed to hesitate and look back. Arthur pursed his mouth. The man went.
‘Do I look that terrible, Arthur?’
‘How terrible do you need to look? Have you suddenly found ambitions?’
Scully pulled Billie up onto the stool and sat down himself with his chest against the bar.
‘Honestly,’ said Arthur, ‘you look bereft.’
‘Bereft.’
Scully was never able to figure out exactly what it was that Arthur did. He knew the old bugger had been here on the island thirty years, that he was a London Jew who drank screwdrivers for breakfast, that he always had some mysterious project on the go, that he took calls from London and New York but never quite disclosed what business he was in. In his sixties, he was bluff, beefy, loud, evasive and tended toward the pompous. A strange, lonely man with a kindly, magisterial streak. Scully had developed a grudging regard for him. He was a bit of a character and the unofficial king of the expats. Every summer, it seemed, the old goat fell for some luscious backpacker in a halter top who took his dough and gave him the bum’s rush. He was a creature of habit. Beyond that he was unknowable.
‘Bereft,’ said Arthur. ‘Quite.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She? She?’
Scully smiled, felt Billie pressing into his side.
‘There’s no she,’ said Arthur. ‘The little bitch took off back to Copenhagen the last day of summer. Left her bloody diaphragm in the bathroom cupboard.’
‘That’s not who I meant, Arthur. You know it.’
Everyone else went back to carefully talking at their tables. Back in the kitchen, Sofia cursed and whanged pans about. Arthur looked at him and then at Billie. A little sheen of sweat appeared on his large brow.
‘Come on, Arthur, let’s not piss around.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘I’ll give you a description, then. Tall, long black hair, serious suntan, long legs, as you once told me when you were smashed, Australian, practical, friendly, smart, married.’
‘Can’t help you.’
Billie looked at her knees. Her fists were clenched just above them on her jeans. Scully looked at her, saw Arthur glance down uncomfortably himself, and looked back out at the harbour through the smudged panes.
‘I’m sorry, old boy.’
‘About what?’
‘That there should be trouble.’
‘Are you expecting some trouble, Arthur?’
‘I’m just offering my condolences, you ignoramus. Behave yourself.’
‘You mean —’
‘I don’t mean anything, Scully. I liked you as a couple, that’s all. Come up to my place for a drink later. How long are you staying?’
‘Everyone looks a bit shellshocked,’ said Scully loudly.
‘Well you’ve only just left us tearfully on the wharf a few weeks ago. We thought you were in the colonies.’
‘And Jennifer?’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘It’d be easier if you just told me,’ said Scully.
‘Told you? Told you?’ Arthur scowled and looked hard at him in a vexed and questioning way. He slapped his hand down on the bar. ‘Does anyone want to tell him? Please, our Scully wants to be told!’
But only a few faces looked up. Someone smirked, someone else shrugged.
‘Whatever it is, no one’s telling you this morning, Scully.’
‘I didn’t think you’d be such a prick about it.’
‘Could be your primitive manners,’ said Arthur lighting up his cigar. ‘Buy your child something to eat. She looks all in.’
‘You’re so fuckin sorry for us, you buy her something.’
‘Be an adult, lad.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Your wife? You want me to tell you where your wife is?’
‘I think I’ve had a breakthrough here, Billie.’
‘She’s your wife, boy. Have you mislaid her somewhere?’
‘Mislaid!’ giggled Rory.
Scully got off the stool.
‘Rory,’ said Arthur, ‘you’d better go. Our friend has large calloused hands and your balls will be fasolia if he gets to them.’
‘You got that bloody right,’ said Scully between his teeth.
Rory got up and left, and then in twos and threes, so did everyone else but Sofia’s deaf uncle Ioannis who smiled up gaily from his newspaper.
‘Well, that was pleasant,’ said Arthur. ‘You seem to have everyone suitably on-side. I think I’ll be off as well. I can’t afford being biffed about at my age.’
It shocked Scully to see the fear come to people’s faces, their instant expectation that he would do them harm. He felt stupid, misunderstood.
‘Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on, Arthur?’
‘Why don’t you get off my sodding back and find out for yourself? Where did you come from?’
‘Ireland.’
‘To do this?’ Arthur waved his cigar at the empty taverna. ‘To make a fool of yourself?’