A Twist in the Tale

Early the following morning, the Robertses checked over their detailed plans for Day One in file number two. They were first to collect the rented Fiat that had already been paid for in England, before driving off into the hills to the ancient Byzantine fortress at Selcuk in the morning, to be followed by the Temple of Diana in the afternoon if they still had time.

After breakfast had been cleared away and they had cleaned their teeth, the Robertses left the guesthouse a few minutes before nine. Armed with their hire car form and guidebook, they headed off for Beyazik’s Garage where their promised car awaited them. They strolled down the cobbled streets past the little white houses, enjoying the sea breeze until they reached the bay. Christopher spotted the sign for Beyazik’s Garage when it was still a hundred yards ahead of them.

As they passed the magnificent yachts moored alongside the harbor, they tested each other on the nationality of each flag, feeling not unlike the “offspring” completing a geography test.

“Italian, French, Liberian, Panamanian, German. There aren’t many British boats,” said Christopher, sounding unusually patriotic, the way he always did, Margaret reflected, the moment they were abroad.

She stared at the rows of gleaming hulls lined up like buses in Piccadilly during the rush hour; some of the boats were even bigger than buses. “I wonder what kind of people can possibly afford such luxury?” she asked, not expecting a reply.

“Mr. and Mrs. Roberts, isn’t it?” shouted a voice from behind them. They both turned to see a now-familiar figure dressed in a white shirt and white shorts, wearing a hat that made him look not unlike the “Bird’s Eye” captain, waving at them from the bow of one of the bigger yachts.

“Climb on board, me hearties,” Mr. Kendall-Hume declared enthusiastically, more in the manner of a command than an invitation.

Reluctantly the Robertses walked the gangplank.

“Look who’s here,” their host shouted down a large hole in the middle of the deck. A moment later Mrs. Kendall-Hume appeared from below, dressed in a diaphanous orange sarong and a matching bikini top.

“It’s Mr. and Mrs. Roberts—you remember, from Malcolm’s school.”

Kendall-Hume turned back to face the dismayed couple. “I don’t remember your first names, but this is Melody and I’m Ray.”

“Christopher and Margaret,” admitted Mr. Roberts as handshakes were exchanged.

“What about a drink? Gin, vodka or…?”

“Oh, no,” said Margaret. “Thank you very much, we’ll both have an orange juice.”

“Suit yourselves,” said Ray Kendall-Hume. “You must stay for lunch.”

“But we couldn’t impose…”

“I insist,” said Mr. Kendall-Hume. “After all, we’re on holiday. By the way, we’ll be going over to the other side of the bay for lunch. There’s one hell of a beach there, and it will give you a chance to sunbathe and swim in peace.”

“How considerate of you,” said Christopher.

“And where’s young Malcolm?” asked Margaret.

“He’s on a scouting holiday in Scotland. Doesn’t like to mess about in boats the way we do.”

For the first time he could recall, Christopher felt some admiration for the boy. A moment later the engine started thunderously.

On the trip across the bay, Ray Kendall-Hume expounded his theories about “having to get away from it all.” “Nothing like a yacht to ensure your privacy and not having to mix with the hoi polloi.” He only wanted the simple things in life: the sun, the sea and an infinite supply of good food and drink.

The Robertses could have asked for nothing less. By the end of the day they were both suffering from a mild bout of sunstroke and were also feeling a little seasick. Despite white pills, red pills and yellow pills, liberally supplied by Melody, when they finally got back to their room that night they were unable to sleep.

* * *

Avoiding the Kendall-Humes over the next twenty days did not prove easy. Beyazik’s, the garage where their little hire car awaited them each morning and to which it had to be returned each night, could only be reached via the quayside where the Kendall-Humes’ motor yacht was moored like an insuperable barrier at a gymkhana. Hardly a day passed that the Robertses did not have to spend some part of their precious time bobbing up and down on Turkey’s choppy coastal waters, eating oily food and discussing how large a carpet would be needed to fill the Kendall-Humes’ front room.

However, they still managed to complete a large part of their program and determinedly set aside the whole of the last day of the holiday in their quest for a carpet. As they did not need Beyazik’s car to go into town, they felt confident that for that day at least they could safely avoid the Kendall-Humes.

On the final morning they rose a little later than planned and after breakfast strolled down the tiny cobbled path together, Christopher in possession of the seventeenth edition of Carpets—Fact and Fiction, Margaret with a tape measure and five hundred pounds in travelers’ checks.

Once the schoolmaster and his wife had reached the bazaar they began to look around a myriad of little shops, wondering where they should begin their adventure. Fez-topped men tried to entice them to enter their tiny emporiums but the Robertses spent the first hour simply taking in the atmosphere.

“I’m ready to start the search now,” shouted Margaret above the babble of voices around her.

“Then we’ve found you just in time,” said one voice they thought they had escaped.