The Potter’s House. Rosie Thomas

Xan, are you, and settling down to a mortgage and a routine? You are marrying this beautiful place and a life as unlike Mum’s as it could possibly be.’

      Olivia nodded. Her head felt as if it couldn’t contain so much happiness.

      ‘Exactly. I knew you would understand about the island. The others don’t, not really. We always understood each other, didn’t we?’

      ‘Yes, we did.’

      They had been a company of two, all through their childhood and teens. When she left university and set out with her rucksack and a camera it was Max whom Olivia felt guilty about leaving behind, not their parents. It wasn’t many years before Max left England too, in her wake. He had recently come to rest in Sydney.

      Now that the two of them were adults they sometimes talked about the uncomfortable marriage that their parents had endured. Its quality was monotony cut with menace, Olivia diagnosed, once she was old enough. Every table mat and duster and saucepan lid had its proper place in her mother’s domestic order, there was a rigid programme of what was cleaned when and what was to be eaten on which day. Nothing was ever allowed to vary, but Maddie seemed always to be tensely waiting. When she was young Olivia never wanted to come too close to what the element of menace consisted of, although it shifted around the arguments that she and Max overheard when they were lying in bed, and her father’s absences.

      He came home, always, in the end, but there was an unspoken fear that some day he might not.

      It had felt like the essence of freedom to Olivia to move out of their house and go as she pleased, and it was a freedom she had never dreamed of giving up, until now.

      ‘Be happy,’ Max ordered.

      ‘I think I can promise that,’ Olivia murmured, dreamily resting her head against her brother’s knees.

      ‘Where’s Jack and the girls?’ he asked after a while.

      ‘Giving each other facials, I think.’

      ‘Of course.’

      They rolled on the brown turf, laughing as they had done when they were children.

      For the wedding Olivia’s mother wore a pink suit and her father a linen jacket and a spotted silk tie. Denis and Maddie looked tall and pale and formal, and quite bewildered among the fishermen and carpenters and goat men.

      When she came out of the church in the wake of the priest in his black chimney hat, as Xan’s wife, she stopped and kissed both her parents.

      ‘That’s my girl,’ Denis said and she knew that he was pleased for her. Maddie had tears smudging her mascara and Olivia brushed them away with the tips of her fingers. Meroula was standing there too and Olivia gave her mother-in-law a kiss on each cheek. She wanted to say something about being a daughter rather than a son stealer, but she couldn’t muster the Greek words.

      Just as well, she thought afterwards. Meroula had no time for sentiment. She was as sentimental as a mousetrap.

      The newlyweds gave a party on their terrace, under the newly planted vine. Everyone on the island who could get away from their summer work came, and the tavernas and restaurants operated for the night with a skeleton staff. Celia and Polly and Jack danced with the goat men, and her father got drunk and made a long speech interspersed with the classical Greek he remembered from school, to the bafflement of the entire company.

      Xan and Olivia went to bed that night in their room still furnished with fruit boxes.

      ‘Will your mother be happy now?’ she asked.

      She felt him smiling against her hair, his breath warming her scalp. ‘No, of course not.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘There must be sons.’

      ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

      That was ten years ago. In that time they had built a business together, and they had had Georgi and Theo.

      Meroula put down her empty coffee cup.

      ‘I will walk back home with you, Mother,’ Xan said, as he always did. Olivia kissed her and Meroula submitted to the embrace.

      ‘Goodnight Olivia. I am grateful for the food.’

      ‘And we are thankful for our family.’

      It was a traditional island exchange after hospitality given and received. Sometimes Olivia had to grit her teeth around the utterance more than at others.

      While Xan was out Olivia finished drying up the supper dishes and put them away in the cupboard. She blew out the candles and went outside to stand on the terrace. The wind was blowing from the wrong direction. Usually at this time of night she could hear the sea, but now she caught a sound from the opposite side, a goat bell from the herd that roamed the hill. She stood for a minute, listening. The goats should be in their shelter now, not restlessly moving. It must be the thunder in the air.

      Upstairs the boys were asleep in their beds. Theo’s arms and legs were flung out at angles and he held the red man firmly in one fist. Olivia kissed them both. In her own room she sat tiredly on the bed and peeled off her socks. It had been a long day.

      Xan came in and closed the door.

      When they were lying down together she asked, ‘What time is it?’

      ‘Half past eleven.’

      ‘Did you hear the wind?’

      ‘Yes. Are you sleepy?’

      ‘I thought I was. But now I’m not.’

      ‘That’s good.’

      It was an hour before they finally fell asleep, at half past midnight.

       Five

      In the darkness I am still clinging to my bed of rock.

      I can see Peter’s face and Lisa Kirk’s smile, and Andreas, and my mother and a falling statue.

      Again and again, over and over, the statue’s stone arc cutting through a blue afternoon, and the terror that came after merges with the terror of this moment.

      The jetty no longer exists. Even through a hanging pall of dust that thickens the darkness I can see that much. Everything has been transformed. The line of hotels along the beach front has been mashed into drunken, sloping relics. The brittle white façade of my hotel has fallen into creases with stark vertical pillars rising out of it. The corner that had once been my room is completely gone. The tall lights along the sea wall have been snapped like matchsticks and the sand in front is a greedy swirl of water.

      I stagger to my feet like a drunken creature.

      The jetty foundations are big, jagged boulders and I begin to scramble over them. All I can think is that I must get to the hotel. My belongings are all there, my clothes and my money and passport. Without these coverings and shreds of paper I am nothing, I am invisible.

      Get to the hotel. Only a few yards away, but an interminable distance. Blocked by rubble and sea water. I must get to the hotel.

      Somewhere ahead of me a woman starts wailing, a long, ululating sound of pure desolation.

      Get to the hotel. People will need help.

      I hear a booming noise behind me. I turn my head, a split second and out of the corner of my eye I glimpse a towering wall of water. The crest of it with an ugly lacing of foam is far higher than my head and it is racing at me, too fast to evade, even if there were anywhere to run to.

      I fling up my arms to cover my head. The wave smashes into me, and my ears and eyes and lungs fill up with water. I fall and the force of the wave sweeps me away like