potato?’ From coming to going, it’s one big rant about all that’s wrong with Canada, and I get sick of it.
An English couple tells us we have to go into the corner store to enquire about the times of buses into Zante town, where we’ll get a far better taste of the real island than we do here, in package holiday hell. ‘I’m not holding out hope,’ I grunt to my mother.
‘Your problem is, you were spoilt with Jonathan.’
I don’t need reminding of the fact that Jonathan and I did have a good life. We had no ties. We didn’t even own a cat. We took foreign holidays twice a year, and a mini-weekend away almost every month. After I had to give up our home, it struck me that maybe this was my punishment. Because I’d become too used to the good life and I’d developed an over-keen sense of entitlement. I thought the rest of the world lived like me. When I saw those TV commercials about the starving kids in Africa, I’d think, oh that’s so sad , then change channels.
In the store, the Greek man tells us there’s only one bus a day into Zante.
‘One bus?’ I stare at the top of his head as he thumbs through his newspaper. ‘Well what about coming back?’
‘Don’t expect to come back,’ he talks to his paper.
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with that helpful reply. I wait for him to add something more but he goes on pretending we are not there. I get the urge to pull him across the counter by his collar and tell him, listen buddy, tourists keep your economy going, so be nice to them. Instead I slap a hand on the counter, startling him. ‘But suppose a person, for some quite deluded reason, did get it into their heads that they might like to come back—’
‘Never trust the bus.’ Comes the voice behind us.
I turn to look over my shoulder, and there is a man there: an attractive man. I might be happy that his gaze is steady on my face, then it drops the length of me, in a summarizing, skirt-chasing way. But then it shifts to my mother and does the same thing.
‘Sisters? Yes?’ he says. His eyes roam fast and loose over our hats.
The cheesiness of his line totally appeals to my mother. She bursts into a dirty, tickled-pink, cackle. ‘Oh yes! I’m the younger one of course!’
‘I know,’ he says, and he smiles at her for a long time, the way a man might do with a younger woman he was attracted to. Then he says something in Greek to the man behind the counter, who sniggers.
‘Please, it is not trouble for me to take you into town. I am going there as it is.’ He throws a hand in our direction. ‘The hats… there are two movie stars here.’ His English is excellent.
‘If your vision is that bad I don’t think we should trust you behind a wheel!’ says my mother.
He is not classically handsome. The face is a little too long, the eyebrows too heavy, the C-brackets at either side of his mouth too deep, like the furrows in his brow. And he needs a good shave. Yet there’s something… It’s his eyes. They have a penetrating expression in them that compensates for the lack of it on his face. Soulful eyes. They save him.
I immediately pull my hat off and intend it to have a slow and painful burial at sea. He makes a point of noticing my self-conscious gesture.
‘Well, maybe we should go with the gentleman.’ My mother pumps my arm in encouragement. ‘It’s awfully nice of him to offer.’ Wink. Wink.
‘ Awfully nice?’ Who is this person?
He looks from my mother to me, then gestures outside. ‘My car is just there. Really, I would be happy to have the company.’ His eyes briefly alight on my mother’s colourful toenails.
She has gone from winking now, to a wide-eyed, besotted stare. I try to keep the smile off my face, and keep her hanging there for moments. Then I say, ‘Thanks all the same but I think we’ll pass.’
‘Who says we’ll pass!’ She’s practically stopping my circulation now. Then she gives me one sharp dig in my ribcage that is
An English couple tells us we have to go into the corner store to enquire about the times of buses into Zante town, where we’ll get a far better taste of the real island than we do here, in package holiday hell. ‘I’m not holding out hope,’ I grunt to my mother.
‘Your problem is, you were spoilt with Jonathan.’
I don’t need reminding of the fact that Jonathan and I did have a good life. We had no ties. We didn’t even own a cat. We took foreign holidays twice a year, and a mini-weekend away almost every month. After I had to give up our home, it struck me that maybe this was my punishment. Because I’d become too used to the good life and I’d developed an over-keen sense of entitlement. I thought the rest of the world lived like me. When I saw those TV commercials about the starving kids in Africa, I’d think, oh that’s so sad , then change channels.
In the store, the Greek man tells us there’s only one bus a day into Zante.
‘One bus?’ I stare at the top of his head as he thumbs through his newspaper. ‘Well what about coming back?’
‘Don’t expect to come back,’ he talks to his paper.
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with that helpful reply. I wait for him to add something more but he goes on pretending we are not there. I get the urge to pull him across the counter by his collar and tell him, listen buddy, tourists keep your economy going, so be nice to them. Instead I slap a hand on the counter, startling him. ‘But suppose a person, for some quite deluded reason, did get it into their heads that they might like to come back—’
‘Never trust the bus.’ Comes the voice behind us.
I turn to look over my shoulder, and there is a man there: an attractive man. I might be happy that his gaze is steady on my face, then it drops the length of me, in a summarizing, skirt-chasing way. But then it shifts to my mother and does the same thing.
‘Sisters? Yes?’ he says. His eyes roam fast and loose over our hats.
The cheesiness of his line totally appeals to my mother. She bursts into a dirty, tickled-pink, cackle. ‘Oh yes! I’m the younger one of course!’
‘I know,’ he says, and he smiles at her for a long time, the way a man might do with a younger woman he was attracted to. Then he says something in Greek to the man behind the counter, who sniggers.
‘Please, it is not trouble for me to take you into town. I am going there as it is.’ He throws a hand in our direction. ‘The hats… there are two movie stars here.’ His English is excellent.
‘If your vision is that bad I don’t think we should trust you behind a wheel!’ says my mother.
He is not classically handsome. The face is a little too long, the eyebrows too heavy, the C-brackets at either side of his mouth too deep, like the furrows in his brow. And he needs a good shave. Yet there’s something… It’s his eyes. They have a penetrating expression in them that compensates for the lack of it on his face. Soulful eyes. They save him.
I immediately pull my hat off and intend it to have a slow and painful burial at sea. He makes a point of noticing my self-conscious gesture.
‘Well, maybe we should go with the gentleman.’ My mother pumps my arm in encouragement. ‘It’s awfully nice of him to offer.’ Wink. Wink.
‘ Awfully nice?’ Who is this person?
He looks from my mother to me, then gestures outside. ‘My car is just there. Really, I would be happy to have the company.’ His eyes briefly alight on my mother’s colourful toenails.
She has gone from winking now, to a wide-eyed, besotted stare. I try to keep the smile off my face, and keep her hanging there for moments. Then I say, ‘Thanks all the same but I think we’ll pass.’
‘Who says we’ll pass!’ She’s practically stopping my circulation now. Then she gives me one sharp dig in my ribcage that is
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