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eccentrics cultivate, instantly forgot his angry outburst and was smiling lovingly at his young wife, radiant in emerald-green silk, her golden hair tied up with a matching scarf. By the time Maria arrived with the main course, a kind of glutinous stew with lumps of gristly meat floating in it, they were all merry enough to eat some without shuddering.
    When the band stopped for a break, Maria took off her apron and stepped diffidently into the centre of the floor.
    ‘Tomorrow,’ she announced, ‘it is the Feast of St Sophia, the patron saint of our island, and my mother, she will prepare the special meal to celebrate.’
    ‘Oh good,’ muttered Sid, picking something stringy out of his teeth.
    Maria’s eyes sparkled with hope and anticipation and she clasped her hands together excitedly. ‘This is a very special time for the women of Katastrophos. Before the feast, all the childless women will be given a lamp, then we make the pilgrimage up the many steps to the monastery where St Sophia’s precious relics are kept.’
    She turned and pointed to the massive rock rising out of the amethyst sea, the monastery ruins now standing stark and forbidding against the moonlight.
    ‘There, we must first eat a small piece of the wick, then we light our lamps and make the journey back down. Those women whose lamps still burn after they reach the ground have consumed the blessing of our saint and will be …’ she tweaked the well-thumbed phrase book from her apron pocket and searched desperately for the English, ‘… they will be fruitful,’ she finished, triumphantly.
    ‘What does she mean – hic – fruitful?’ asked Sid, a bit drunk.
    ‘In the club, mate,’ translated Jack.
    ‘You mean they get pregnant just by going up there?’ said Sid, whose spiritual edge was somewhat blunted. After twenty years of unblocking other people’s lavatories, he saw the world for what it was. ‘But don’t they have to … you know …’ he gestured vaguely with his hands, ‘… first?’
    Jack was spared from trying to explain the island’s mystic interaction between sex and superstition, because the bouzoúki players had started up again and Diana, in a cloud of Chanel, scooped Sidney up and swept him on to the tiny square of paved dance floor. With scant respect for ethnic accuracy, they began performing a spirited Spanish flamenco to the Greek music. Sid had tied Diana’s silk scarf around his head, bandit-style, and she wore his sombrero.
    Diana was spectacular. She stamped her heels and twirled sinuously around Sidney, swishing her skirts in a way that gave the audience a sporadic but dazzling view of her minuscule knickers. Everybody clapped and laughed, enjoying the impromptu cabaret apart from Ambrose, who sat at the far end of the table wearing an expression that was part disapproval, and part something decidedly more visceral.
    ‘Would you like to dance?’ Yanni held out his hand to Marjorie. For an older lady, he felt she looked unnaturally subdued and downcast. He had, after all, been brought up on an island whose culture decreed that matriarchs automatically enjoyed respect and authority.
    Immediately, Ambrose snapped, ‘Marjorie, I forbid you to get up on that floor and make a fool of yourself. Stay where you are.’
    Marjorie shook her head regretfully at Yanni and said, ‘ Óchi . No. Thank you, Yanni.’ Then, as if she felt her husband needed defending, she turned to Corrie sitting beside her. ‘Ambrose doesn’t like dancing. It’s not that he doesn’t like me to enjoy myself. I shouldn’t want people to think that. It’s just that he mustn’t dance himself because of his bad heart and it upsets him to watch other people doing it. He’s never really got over being deprived of his career, you see. He had to take early retirement on the grounds of ill-health.’
    ‘What work did he do?’ asked Corrie, wondering who would employ a man with such intolerant, outdated views.
    ‘He sold insurance. Life