Apollo's Seed. Anne Mather

having breakfast in the hotel dining room, she felt rather less sure of herself. It wasn’t the first time she had wished she had not allowed herself to be persuaded to come here, and she doubted it would be the last. She wanted to help Roger, of course she did, but this particular demand was surely too much to expect. There must be some other way he could tackle it. And yet wasn’t that exactly why she was here? Because there was no other way? Because the Myconos family had already blocked every other overture he had made?

      She sighed, spreading the contents of a tiny tin of apricot conserve across a rather rubbery roll. If only it had been anywhere else than Mycos. Almost any other island! But Roger’s research had led him to believe that Mycos might have given refuge to the Minoans, fleeing the tidal wave that devastated Crete when the volcanic island of Santorini erupted almost three thousand years ago. And although Martha had not wanted to get involved, his persistent assertion that the reason she wouldn’t help him was because she was afraid to contact Dion again had gradually eroded her opposition.

      Aware of the dark eyes of a waiter resting upon her, she felt an unwelcome shiver of apprehension slide down her spine. Greek men could be so contemptuous of Western European women. Their eyes admired their slender long-legged beauty, they showered extravagant compliments upon them—but secretly they despised their freedom and independence, even while they were taking advantage of it. Their own women were treated much differently. A Greek girl was still a virgin when she got married, and although her position was in no way equal to that of her husband, she was given his loyalty and fidelity, and the respect due to the mother of his children.

      Martha pushed her plate aside half impatiently, and reached for the coffee pot. What was she doing? she asked herself, thinking about such things. They were not her concern—not any longer, at any rate. She had had enough of that kind of confinement, the cloistered life that left a man free to do as he wished, and a woman to do as she was told. If so total a commitment was respect, she could do without it. It was sad for Josy, of course it was, but at least she would have the freedom to do as she liked, and not as her father willed.

      The guilt that invariably accompanied this silent defiance spilled over her once again. In all these years, she had not learned the art of self-deception. No matter what she said, no matter how she defended herself, she could never entirely destroy the feeling that she had deliberately deprived the child of her birthright. It was easy enough to state the facts—that Dion hadn’t wanted to listen to her, that he had jumped to reckless conclusions without any proof, that he had driven her away by his absurd jealousy—but there was no denying that she had not denied his belief, had actually enjoyed his almost homicidal fury, and felt a certain smug satisfaction in thwarting him at last.

      Those feelings had not lasted long. Indeed, she knew that had he come looking for her in those early days, she would have capitulated and told him the truth. She had loved him, after all, in spite of his faults, and it was not her nature to inflict pain. But he had not, and her hopes had turned to anger, and her anger to resentment, and resentment into bitterness. By the time she did receive a communication from him, Sarah had had her accident, and it was too late then to listen to reason. She had wanted nothing from him. His willingness to condemn her was unforgivable, and later, as her daughter developed into an adorable little girl, she had realised that if Dion ever learned that Josy was his, he might well take her from them, as well as everything else …

      Leaving the table, she crossed the tiled floor to the arched exit which gave access to the verandah. It was too early yet to take the taxi into town, and she had no desire to stand about for hours, waiting for Aristotle Myconos.

       ‘Kalimera, thespinis!’

      The waiter who had been observing her earlier had stepped into her path, and was looking down at her with evident admiration. He was a handsome young man, she had to admit, short and stocky like some Greeks, with bulging biceps visible through the sleeves of his thin cotton shirt. He was obviously well used to having success with the unmarried girls who stayed at the hotel, and the arrogance in his face reminded her painfully of that other occasion when she and her sister had accepted a similar invitation.

      ‘Kalimera,’ she said now, shortly, the tightness of her lips betraying her anger to more discerning eyes. ‘Me sinhorite …^,

      ‘Ah!’ The man’s eyes widened at her casual use of his language. ‘You are Greek?’

      ‘No. I’m English,’ retorted Martha coldly. ‘Now—if you’ll please get out of my way …’

       ‘Poli kala …’

      The Greek spread his hands expressively, and aware that they had attracted the attention of some of the other waiters, who were watching with amused eyes, Martha walked out of the dining room with burning cheeks.

      On the verandah, however, her sense of humour asserted itself. It was ridiculous to get so worked up just because a young man had made a pass at her. What did it matter if he was Greek? It should be good to know that she was still attractive enough to warrant that kind of treatment on her first morning at the hotel, and she had no reason to feel oppressed by it. All the same, it had come too close on the heels of the thoughts that had plagued her during breakfast, and she walked uneasily along the balcony, aware of an increasing state of restiveness. She would be glad when it was ten o’clock, and she could get this interview with Dion’s father over. It was a nerve-racking prospect, and not one she relished, and the determination she had felt in England to show Roger she had no qualms about meeting any of the Myconos family was rapidly waning. Not because she was afraid, she quickly told herself, but simply because she resented having to ask them for anything.

      On impulse, she decided to go into town after all. She could always wander round the shops for a while, she thought reasonably. She needed some sun-tan oil. Her skin would quickly blister if she did not take the proper precautions, and that kind of discomfort she could do without.

      She went back to her room first to check that her plain denim skirt and blue cotton shirt were suitable, and viewing her reflection in the mirror above the vanity unit, she wondered if her erstwhile father-in-law would notice the shadows beneath her eyes. The light make-up she wore did little to disguise the hollows where dark lashes swept the pale transparency of her cheeks, and she wished for once that she was not so slim. But the care of a five-year-old, an invalid, and a full-time job, was not designed to put flesh on her bones, and since her break-up with Dion, she had had little time to worry about her appearance. Only the heavy silken swathe of honey-coloured hair remained the same, a concession to vanity, and, confined in its single thick braid, an easy extravagance. There was seldom enough money for the luxury of a hairdresser, and Martha had grown used to washing her own hair and letting it dry naturally. Josy’s hair, which Dion had found so unacceptable, was now almost as dark as his, although she had to admit that in other ways, her daughter was much more like herself.

      Riding along the coast road in the taxi, Martha was glad her hair was confined. With all the windows open, the stiff breeze would quickly have disordered any hairstyle, but the few strands that blew across her pale forehead only added to her appearance, gentling the somewhat anxious severity of her expression.

      ‘Mandraki?’ enquired the driver over his shoulder, and Martha gathered her thoughts and nodded.

      ‘Efharisto,’ she agreed with a small smile, and the driver’s brows lifted in silent approval. The smile erased the shadows from the wide grey eyes and brought an unconscious allure to features that in repose lacked that revealing candour.

      Rhodes, or Rodos as the locals called it, was full of tourists. It was the start of the busiest season of the year, and the narrow streets were thronged with people. Open-air bars and tavernas were doing good business, and down by the harbour, there were the usual groups of older Greeks, gathered about the tables on the square, drinking the thick sweet Greek coffee, and arguing the politics of the day.

      Martha tipped the driver and left the cab, walking across the road to where a handful of caiques were waiting to transport tourists to the tiny island of Khalki, or to Lindos, on the eastern coast of Rhodes, where the Acropolis attracted more and more visitors every year. She remembered