The ruins of the palace of Phaestos shimmered in the heat. All around the plateau on which it had been built the land fell away into the surrounding fertile plain; what a vantage point, and the peaceful citizens had built no fortifications three thousand years ago. Patrick wandered about in the hot sun among the thick, ancient walls trying to imagine the scene as it had been in those days, but not succeeding very well. Around him, clustering on the heels of their various guides, were flocks of tourists in bright dresses and shirts. Patrick heard French, German, Italian and English, and other tongues he could not recognise. He stood for a while gazing across at Mount Ida, allegedly Zeus’s birthplace. And why not?
After a time he felt too hot to remain outside any longer, though he had not worked out the plan of the palace at all well in his mind. He had consumed a fair amount of ouzo with his new Cretan friends, for none of which had he been allowed to pay, and he had then driven on to the coast where he had found a taverna by the sea. There he had eaten fried fish and drunk iced beer. The effect of it all was soporific. He walked slowly back to the tourist building where he could have some sort of long, cool, non-alcholic drink.
He was sitting in the shade eating an enormous apple and drinking lemonade when Ursula Norris appeared from within the building and saw him. She was chuckling away to herself.
‘Hullo,’ she said. ‘So you got here. I am pleased to see you.’ She was choking with suppressed mirth. ‘Do you know, in this birthplace of civilisation, where there was an elaborate plumbing system three thousand years ago, the ladies’ loo today is still just a hole in the ground? What about that for the march of progress?’
‘No, really?’
‘Mm. One wouldn’t give it a thought anywhere else in Europe – but here—’ she grinned at him. ‘I’ve a childish sense of humour,’ she said.
‘Let me get you a drink,’ Patrick suggested.
‘I’d love one, but there isn’t time. We’ve got to go back to the coach,’ said Ursula.
‘Come back with me,’ said Patrick. ‘My car will be like an oven as I could find no tree to park it under, and the clutch is lousy, but you’re very welcome.’
‘Oh, that would be lovely. Could I?’ Her pleasure was genuine. ‘I’ll tell our guardian.’
She moved away, and Patrick saw her speak to an earnest-looking young woman with dark, glossy hair, wearing an orange dress. Then she returned.
‘That’s fine. Those couriers have a terrible job. There’s always someone who’s difficult, or keeps the coach waiting. How lovely to desert them.’
Patrick saw George Loukas and his wife looking at postcards. George said something to Elsie and took her elbow. They began to walk slowly towards the coach park.
‘Those two came with you?’ he asked. ‘I saw them waiting to be collected.’
‘Who? Oh, the American couple. Yes. Do you know them?’
‘I met him in Challika last night,’ said Patrick. ‘He’s of Greek descent. This is a sentimental pilgrimage for him.’
‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ said Ursula.
‘He was talking away in Greek,’ Patrick said. ‘I was quite surprised that a second-generation American citizen had kept it up.’
‘It happens all the time,’ said Ursula. ‘They come back to retire, after working all their lives in the States, sometimes.’
They sat and talked about it while she drank lemonade and shared the remains of Patrick’s apple, and waited till the coach had gone.