Read Online Songs of Blue and Gold by Deborah Lawrenson - Free Book Online Page B

all.’
    â€˜And you won’t get any more now until next year?’ she guessed.
    â€˜That’s right.’
    â€˜Oh, well.’
    She hesitated, wondering whether it was worth asking him about Julian Adie. He waited, seemingly amused that she was lingering – or perhaps he was just pleased with himself.
    â€˜Yes?’
    Something around his mouth reminded her of Richard, and she felt herself blushing.
    â€˜I – I think I’ll take one of these.’ She pulled out a snorkel mask.
    â€˜Anything else?’
    Don’t push it. ‘Just this, thank you.’
    But as she turned to go, she reminded herself she had nothing to lose. If she couldn’t find the path to the shrine, the only option was to follow Adie and Grace, and go by sea.
    â€˜Are there any boat trips still running?’ she asked. She had a vision in her mind of an organised day long sail and picnic that might go somewhere close.
    He shook his head. ‘Not now. It is too late.’ He gave a lovely smile. ‘Sorry.’
    â€˜Oh, well. It was worth asking.’
    â€˜It’s always worth asking.’ He paused. ‘Possibly there are a few boats coming north from Kerkyra.’
    â€˜I’m sorry?’
    â€˜Kerkyra – from Corfu Town. You could maybe take a trip from there. They bring bigger boats for tours of the coast. I can find out if you are interested.’
    â€˜I could . . . but . . .’ The idea didn’t appeal. If all else failed, then perhaps she might, but it seemed unlikely she would be able to see anything she wanted from a boat carrying a hundred or so tourists, far less achieve what she really wanted, which was to climb on to the rocks by the shrine as Adie and Grace once did.
    He thought for a moment. ‘You know the boat hire office near the White House?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Why don’t you ask for your own boat?’
    â€˜I’d thought of that – but . . . I decided not to.’
    â€˜You don’t like little boats?’
    â€˜Well . . .’ She gave what she hoped was a wry smile. ‘I’m not an experienced sailor.’
    â€˜Nervous?’
    â€˜A bit.’
    â€˜Go and see. Ask for Manolis. Tell him Christos sent you.’
    â€˜All roads lead to Manolis . . .!’
    â€˜You know him already?’
    â€˜I’m renting one of his apartments.’
    â€˜Then ask him – he might give you a special deal.’
    Melissa thought about it, but then when she reached the boat hire office, she went on past. She was going to have to work up some confidence for that one. Instead she returned to the wide swimming rock on the curve of the next bay, andtried out the new snorkel. It leaked a bit (it was really nothing more than a cheap toy) but it was certainly usable if you could get used to the invasive trickle of thick salty water.
    In the clear shallows, the seal-brown boulders which had broken away from the cliffs were covered in algae like a dusting of mauve chalk. Brightly coloured fish darted over part of an ammonite the size of a car wheel and off into forests of black sea grass in the bowl of the bay.
    She swam around, entranced, for almost an hour, amazed that the water was so warm. Then, just as Adie described in the poem titled ‘Plunge’, dated 1937, she surfaced to birdsong.
    Sun-dazed, Melissa made her way back into the village. She had left her watch behind that morning, deliberately wanting to cut loose. But from the tightness and reddening of her skin, she knew she must have sat for hours on the rock, staring at the sea.
    A white pick-up van pulled up in front of her, just where the lane became a path too narrow for vehicles. The driver executed a dazzling three-point turn in front of her, then stopped, calling out. Melissa ignored him and carried on walking.
    He shouted again before she registered what it was he was saying, and that he knew who she