it difficult to relax. She felt exhilarated, and a little nervous at the same time, and could not resist taking brief looks back over her shoulder, as if she half expected to see Damon Leandros following them.
But that was impossible, she told herself confidently. He’d have to find another car, and that would take time. She glanced at her watch, wondering what time the Phoros ferry left. The traffic was heavy, and the car was constantly being forced to slow almost to a crawling pace if not stop altogether. But recalling her experience of waiting for the bus, Helen decided that timetables were obviously not as strictly adhered to in Greece as in the rest of creation. Certainly the driver did not seem at all agitated by the frequent delays, and the easiest thing to do was to follow his example.
She sighed in relief as the harbour came in sight, and sat forward, waiting for the car to stop. But it did not stop. The driver steadily threaded his way through the other vehicles both moving and stationary which packed the narrow streets, narrowly avoiding laughing, chattering groups of people who roamed across the crowded highways as if it was just another extension of the narrow footpath.
There seemed to be streamers everywhere, Helen thought dazedly as she stared out of the window, and hundreds of people boarding and disembarking. She only hoped the driver knew what he was doing, and that her escapade would not end in her sailing off into the wide blue yonder on the wrong ship.
She tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘Which is the ferry?’ she asked.
But his only response was an owlish look and a faint shrug of the shoulders as if her meaning escaped him.
‘Boat—Phoros,’ she tried again, and this time to her relief he nodded, smiling broadly.
‘Soon, soon, thespinis.’
And with that she had to be content. The car moved on, away from the harbour, and the scent of exhaust fumes mingling with the more pervasive odours of charcoal grills and olive oil, and out on to a winding road. Helen twisted round, staring at the clustering vessels they were leaving behind. She could only hope the driver knew what he was doing as they left the vast sprawl of the waterfront behind them. The road they were on seemed to have been carved out of the vast cliffs themselves, and some of the views were spectacular, she had to admit. She was intrigued too by the numerous little shrines and grottoes which were dotted along the wayside. Thank-offerings, she supposed, but to which gods—the ancient or the modern? Perhaps in a country like Greece the old pagan undercurrents still ran strong.
The road turned downhill, and she saw another smaller harbour beneath them, where sleek motor launches and small yachts lay at anchor. It looked the last place in the world where a public ferry for a small place like Phoros would leave from, and she leaned forward frowning a little.
The driver looked back at her, as if aware of her uncertainty, and pointed downwards, saying something in his own tongue which clearly intended to be reassuring. She made herself smile back, but her tension showed in her smile. She was at the end of one journey, perhaps, but at the beginning of another. And at the end of it was a man who, although unseen, had seemed to dominate her childhood and adolescence, on whose character, whose pride, arrogance and lack of compassion she had speculated so often and to so little avail. Yet soon they would meet, and her stomach churned involuntarily at the thought. If her grandfather could be judged by the calibre of the men he chose to employ, she thought, then resolutely switched her mind to other less disturbing ideas. He had sent for her, he wanted to see her, so surely that indicated a softening of his earlier implacable attitude. Or at least she had to hope so, or the few weeks she was committed to spending in Greece could well be unendurable.
She wished she had never allowed herself to be persuaded to come to Greece, if persuasion was the word. Emotional blackmail might be more appropriate, she thought bitterly, remembering how Damon Leandros had deliberately played on her heightened sensibilities. He was to blame. He was to blame for everything.
The car drove slowly along the waterfront, past open-air cafes whose gay awnings fluttered in the slight evening breeze. There were people everywhere, tourists tentatively sipping their first tastes of ouzo and retsina, and the usual anonymous groups of men talking, the bright strings or worry beads in their hands moving incessantly as they gestured to lend emphasis to their remarks. The main waterfront at Piraeus had almost been too crowded to assimilate, but here Helen had time to look around her and take in some of the atmosphere.
It was soon obvious that the driver was no stranger here, and this in itself was a reassurance to her. The car was recognised and voices called and hands lifted in greeting, to which he responded. He drove slowly along the curve of the quayside almost to the far end before stopping. Then he turned to Helen.
‘Boat here, thespinis,’ he announced.
There certainly was a boat, but not the small, rather scruffy steamer she had ruefully envisaged as the most likely craft to be plying between Piraeus and an unimportant island. It was a large, impressive cruiser with cabin accommodation, and what appeared to be a sun deck with an awning. And was that a radio mast? she wondered in bewilderment.
The driver had opened her door by this time and was standing patiently waiting for her to alight.
Helen gestured weakly at the cruiser. ‘This?’ she asked with a shake of her head.
He nodded vigorously. ‘Phoros boat, thespinis. You hurry. They wait for you.’
How very obliging of them, Helen thought, sudden amusement rising within her. Her suspicions about the timetable were apparently totally justified, and she would bet the other passengers were blessing her by now.
A flight of steps led down from the harbour wall, and at the bottom a man in a white uniform was waiting to help her on board. Helen waited while her luggage was speedily transferred to the cruiser, and smiled as the driver returned up the steps.
‘Efharisto,’ she said shyly, trying out one of the few Greek words she knew.
‘Parakalo.’ He removed his cap. ‘Go with God, thespinis.’
The cruiser had indeed been waiting for her, Helen decided, because as soon as her feet touched the deck it seemed to become a hive of discreet activity, and she could feel the throb of powerful engines springing into life. Her cases had vanished, she noticed, and she stood feeling rather solitary, and a little lost.
A man wearing jeans, and a pale blue vest which showed off a powerful torso and arms, went past her, and Helen detained him with a quick ‘Oh, please!’ He paused, looking at her enquiringly.
She shrugged rather helplessly. ‘Where are the passengers?’ she asked. ‘How long does it take to get to Phoros?’
He spread his hands out in front of him. ‘Then sas katavaleno, thespinis.’
‘You don’t speak English,’ Helen said resignedly, and turned away, to find the man in the white uniform beside her.
‘Welcome to the Phaedra, Miss Brandon,’ he said with a heavy accent. ‘It is pleasant on deck, ne? But there are refreshments below, if you prefer.’
Some coffee, Helen thought longingly. The scents and flavours emanating from the tavernas they had passed on the way here had served to remind her just how hungry she was, and how Damon Leandros had rushed her off from the hotel without allowing her to order the soup she had craved.
‘I’d like to go below,’ she said rather shyly. She looked round the deck. ‘Is—are the other passengers
