Follow a Stranger

beauty which reminded her of a postcard come to life.

They tied up at a small jetty and walked up, along

narrow village streets, past the untidy white houses

whose doors all seemed to stand permanently open. Old

women in black sat on some of the doorsteps, shawls over

their grey heads, their wrinkled, tanned faces smiling at

Marc as he walked past. He paused to speak to each one,

gallantly, teasingly, and they giggled at what he said.

Fishermen mending nets waved to him, little boys

begged for drachmae. Everyone seemed to know him and

like him.

They paused at the very top of the hill and he pushed

open high iron gates set in a flinty wall which ran around

a charming, untidy garden, set with cypress and gnarled

old olive trees.

The house was of an ornate, oriental design, the

windows all curves and arches, the stonework fretted.

Kate was so nervous that when Marc, with a sharp

glance, smiled and held her hand as if she were five years

old, she did not protest, but clung to his protection.

“Suppose he’s angry because you brought me?” she

whispered. “He probably prefers his privacy, like most

famous people.”

He squeezed her fingers comfortingly. “Goose! I told

you, he loves pretty blonde girls!”

She giggled, and then the door opened and a fierce old

man, his thick grey moustaches quivering, glared at them

from flashing black eyes.

Marc spoke to him, in Greek, grinning affectionately,

and the old man answered in a low, grumbling voice, his