The Tomb in Turkey

TEN

Down by the pool, Jude thought idly that she should have brought her trashy novel with her. Or had a look at the stock of trashy novels left by previous guests. It was a fairly predictable selection, mostly in English, but some in German and Dutch. Danielle Steel, Wilbur Smith, Dan Brown and, she’d noticed, two abandoned copies of Fifty Shades of Grey.

But going upstairs to fetch a book would be far too much trouble. More importantly, she should have anointed herself with some suntan cream. Though it felt benign, the late afternoon sun retained its potential to burn, and her skin had not had any previous exposure to its beams that year. But again, the journey back into Morning Glory and up the stairs to her room seemed an insuperable challenge. Jude’s eyelids drooped and closed.

From the point of view of her skin, it was probably just as well that she was woken after ten minutes of dozing by an English voice saying, ‘Just came to introduce myself.’

Disoriented, she looked up at the figure outlined by the descending sun. It took a few seconds and a hand shading her eyes before she could see him distinctly. Revealed was a thin man probably in his sixties with no hair, thin metal-rimmed glasses and a tan so dark that he looked as if he’d been pickled like a walnut. He wore only khaki-coloured shorts and leather sandals, the latter incongruously over thick beige socks.

He held out a hand, which Jude stretched forward to shake. Some women might have been embarrassed sitting there in only a skimpy bikini, but not Jude. Or, at least, not at first.

‘My name’s Travers Hughes-Swann,’ said the newcomer.

‘I’m Jude.’

‘Nice to meet you.’

‘Won’t you sit down? Can I get you a drink or something?’

‘No, no, don’t bother, please. I’m not one of those people who’s dependent on their drink. And I never touch alcohol. But I will just sit for a moment.’ He perched his bony buttocks on the edge of an adjacent lounger. ‘I’m just a neighbour, so I thought I’d be neighbourly and say hello.’

‘Oh?’

‘I live in the next villa. Called Brighton House. You can’t see it through the trees, but it’s quite close. Very close, actually.’

‘Ah. Well, I’m here with my friend Carole, and we’re staying for a fortnight.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Really?’

‘No secrets in a place like Kayaköy. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. And everyone knows about all the comings and goings to the various villas.’

‘Oh.’ What he’d said gave Jude a slightly uncomfortable feeling. Morning Glory had seemed so perfectly remote, but clearly the village had eyes and ears. She was also rather aware now that Travers Hughes-Swann had eyes too. And they did seem to be rather fixated on her cleavage.

From her bedroom upstairs, Carole peered out of the window. God, it didn’t take long for Jude to meet new people. She slowed down her unpacking even more. She felt she personally had met quite enough new people for one day. She didn’t want to go down to the pool and get involved in all that business of introductions and explaining herself.

‘Do you live out here permanently?’ asked Jude, intuiting from his tan that he probably did.

He confirmed this. ‘Yes. After I’d retired I needed to get out of the UK. Place fell apart after they did the dirty on Margaret Thatcher. We stuck it for a few more years under that idiot John Major, but things clearly weren’t going to get any better, so we upped sticks and came out here.’

‘Do you go back to England much?’

‘Not if I can help it, no. Walk along the streets there and you hardly hear an English voice. All speaking Bengali or Somali or something like that. And us paying for their welfare with our taxes. Whole country’s gone to the dogs.’

Jude didn’t make any comment, but not for the first time she was struck by how perversely racist a lot of expatriates were. One might have thought they lived abroad with a view to intermingling, building bridges with the locals, but in her experience that very rarely seemed to be the case. They kept themselves to themselves and nurtured recollections of a home country so perfect as never to have existed. ‘When you say “we” …?’

‘Wife Phyllis. “Her Indoors.” Though sadly saying “Her Indoors” these days is all too accurate.’

‘Oh?’

‘Bedridden, I’m afraid. Has been for years.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yes. But one gets used to most things,’ he said in a matter-of-fact way. ‘So Phyllis is “Her Indoors” while I am “Him Outdoors”.’ His little chuckle suggested he thought this was funny. ‘Spend most of my time in the garden. I’ve landscaped it all myself. Can be tricky working on a slope like this, but I’ve put a lot of hard work into it. Built some splendid garden features from the local stone, they look really authentic. It’s a labour of love, actually; I’ve been doing it for years. And it looks pretty damn good, let me tell you.’

‘I’m sure it does.’ Jude looked around. ‘This one’s not bad either, is it?’

‘If you like that kind of thing,’ said Travers Hughes-Swann sniffily. ‘All done by paid gardeners, though. Looks a bit sanitized for my taste.’

‘Oh.’

‘Still, that’s the way Barney does everything, isn’t it? Or, rather, doesn’t do anything. Doesn’t do anything hands-on, anyway. Pays people to come and sort things out for him.’

‘Surely, that’s a good thing, though, isn’t it? So long as he selects the right people to do the jobs.’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ her visitor conceded. ‘If you can afford it. Which he certainly can.’ There was undisguised envy in his voice.

‘Did Barney actually build your villa too?’

‘No, ours has been here much longer. Converted farm building. Much more authentic than this.’ He gestured contemptuously to the splendour of Morning Glory. ‘Or any of the others that Barney’s built. He’s got more concern for the home comforts of middle-class English people than he has for preserving the genuine flavour of Turkish tradition.’

Jude thought that the villa seemed to do a pretty good job of mixing ancient and modern, but didn’t make any comment. She did feel mildly interested though, to see, at some point, how Brighton House had preserved tradition more faithfully. At some point – but that wasn’t a point of any great urgency. She couldn’t see herself exactly seeking out Travers Hughes-Swann’s company over the next two weeks.

By now, though, he did seem dangerously ensconced on the edge of his lounger, gazing fixedly at her cleavage, and she was beginning to wonder how she was going to get rid of him. ‘I must go in soon,’ she said. ‘Mustn’t have too much sun on my first day. And I haven’t even started unpacking.’

‘Right.’ He sounded disappointed by the news. ‘Well, if there’s anything you and your friend Carole need to know, anything we can help you with, just say the word. We’ll be glad to help – well, that is, I’ll be glad to help. I’m afraid Phyllis can’t even help herself these days. You can’t miss our place. We’re first left down the track. Brighton House, as I said.’

‘Thank you. Did you call it that because you used to live in Brighton?’

He looked puzzled by the suggestion. ‘Good Lord, no. Full of poofs, Brighton.’ For a moment he seemed aware of some lapse in political correctness. ‘Or what do they like to be called now – gays? God, and now you’ve got same-sex marriages in the UK, haven’t you? I’m not religious, but I think that’s really offensive, disgusting to normal people like me. You know, there is a lot to be said for living in a Muslim country.’

‘But you haven’t converted to Islam?’

‘God, no. I’m not barmy.’ Reluctantly, he stood up. ‘As I say, anything you need, just drop in.’

‘Thank you so much.’ Jude lifted herself out of her lounger and, with some relief, wrapped the towel around her ample curves. ‘Oh, just one thing, Travers …’

‘Hm?’

‘Have you known Barney Willingdon a long time?’

‘Oh yes. Met him when he first started thinking of building out here. Must be fifteen years ago, at least. I’ve watched him build every one of his villas, watched his property empire expand and expand.’

‘Did you ever meet his first wife?’

‘Zoë? God, yes.’

‘I gather she died …?’

‘Yes, far too young. Pretty little thing.’

‘And do you know how she died?’

‘Yes,’ said Travers Hughes-Swann. ‘Scuba-diving accident.’

Cin Bal was an altogether different experience in eating, particularly if you had sampled as little foreign cuisine as Carole Seddon had. For her, going to a Chinese or Indian in Fedborough verged on the exotic.

The low stone-built restaurant was at the centre of a huge area set under trees in the middle of the Kayaköy valley. While the building may have been used during the colder seasons, when the weather improved everyone sat outside. Tables spread in every direction, but there was no sense of crush. Overhead vines were trained to make a kind of awning. Low circles of cemented stones protected the many trees. There was a high noise-level from the many large parties of Turkish families enjoying their evening. And everything was pervaded by the smells of burning charcoal and barbecuing meat.

Barney Willingdon was clearly a regular at Cin Bal. As soon as he had left his white Range Rover in the car park, people were calling out greetings to him, and the nearer they got to the restaurant building the more he seemed to know. Jude grinned amiably at any who came close, while Carole kept her eyes straight ahead. The whole set-up felt very alien to her and, whatever might be offered from the menu, she was determined she would not have a kebab. (She had her Imodium safely to hand in her bag.)

At the entrance to the building stood a tall man in black shirt and trousers who clearly had some kind of official function. ‘Good evening, Mr Willingdon,’ he said in heavily accented English. ‘Would you like to find a table before you …?’

‘No, I’ll have my usual one.’

‘Very good, Mr Willingdon.’

‘We’ll go straight through to choose our food.’

‘Very good.’

‘But could you set up some drinks for us?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ll have an Efes beer to start with, then probably move on to the red wine. Jude, Carole, what are you drinking?’

‘Tend to prefer white,’ said Jude.

‘Chardonnay, if that’s convenient,’ said Carole clumsily.

‘Have the Chardonnay if you want to, by all means,’ said Barney, ‘but if you’ll be advised by me, try the Sauvignon Blanc. There’s a local one they do here which is absolutely delicious.’

‘Well, I’m not sure that I—’

But Carole was immediately cut off by Jude’s assertion that they’d love to try the Sauvignon Blanc.

Inside the restaurant building were rows of glass-fronted refrigerated display cabinets. In the first ones they came to were large trays full of starters – an infinite array of dips, salads, stuffed vegetables, shellfish, octopus, sausages and pastries. A waiter with a notepad at the ready hovered to take their order. ‘Just choose what you like,’ said Barney.

‘Is that hummus?’ asked Carole tentatively. Hummus she had heard of. Hummus could be bought in Waitrose and Sainsbury’s. (It could even be bought in the budget supermarket Lidl, though of course Carole Seddon didn’t know that.)

‘Yes,’ Barney replied.

‘Well, I think I’ll have some of that.’

‘And what else?’

‘That’ll be plenty, thank you.’

Barney thought they might need a few more starters, and Jude was, unsurprisingly, more adventurous than her friend. She went for octopus salad, stuffed courgette flowers and an aubergine dip.

‘Have some börek too,’ said Barney. He pointed to some triangular envelopes of pastry. ‘Filled with cheese and herbs. They’ll be served hot – very good.’

‘But don’t you think we’ve got enough?’ suggested Carole.

‘No,’ said Barney and, with a few words in Turkish to the waiter, he moved along to the next row of display cabinets. This was the meat. As well as trays of steaks, livers, cutlets and other joints, above them hung down whole split carcasses of beef and lamb. ‘We’ll get some of each,’ said Barney. ‘And a bit of chicken.’

‘How will it be cooked?’ asked Carole cautiously, fearful that she would soon hear the word ‘kebab’.

‘However you want.’

‘Sorry? What do you mean?’

‘We do the cooking ourselves.’

And that was how it happened. They arrived at their table to find their drinks ready for them. A waiter poured Barney’s Efes beer into a frosted glass, then unscrewed the lid of the white wine and, without any tasting ritual, charged glasses for the two women.

Jude took an instant sip. They’d had drinks with Barney on the terrace of Morning Glory, but the evening heat made her still thirsty. ‘Ooh,’ she said as she took the glass away from her lips, ‘that’s gorgeous.’

‘Told you it would be,’ said Barney.

Carole took a tentative sip. She didn’t make any comment, though she, too, thought it was gorgeous. But, as so often with Carole Seddon, a positive feeling was very quickly replaced by a negative one. Would she be betraying her long allegiance to Chilean Chardonnay? And she’d got seven bottles left in a case back at High Tor. It’d be a terrible waste if those didn’t get drunk.

A man, whose hangdog demeanour suggested a lowly position in the Cin Bal hierarchy, came towards them pushing a trolley. It took a moment for the two women to realize that the open metal box he carried was full of burning charcoal. Their own personal barbecue, which the man affixed to the side of their table. Soon after that their starters arrived, and in due course the cuts of meat they had ordered. These were covered with upturned plates, presumably to keep off the flies. Though, in fact, there seemed to be very few flies around, maybe kept away by the charcoal smoke.

As Barney had said, it was completely up to them how they cooked their meal. The process couldn’t have been more hands-on. Those who wanted their meat pink and bloody could have it pink and bloody; and those who wanted it charred to a crisp could char it to a crisp personally.

But with the salads and the wine it tasted wonderful. All of them at the table mellowed and relaxed. Even Carole Seddon began to feel that going away on holiday to Turkey had been rather a good idea. Fethering was all very well in its way, but it was good to be reminded that a world existed outside the village. Perhaps there were more foreign destinations that she should sample.

Also, the quality of the Sauvignon Blanc made her consider yet again the ultimate sacrifice. The next time she went to the Crown and Anchor in Fethering, she might order something other than Chilean Chardonnay. How on earth would Ted Crisp react to such a seismic change?

Throughout the meal, Barney was constantly greeted by other friends or business associates. Clearly, he was a popular man around Kayaköy. Or maybe his popularity was based on more mercenary motives. His developments had brought a lot of work to the local builders and craftsmen (who were all cousins, anyway). The holidaymakers who stayed in his villas also made their contribution to the local economy.

And Barney enjoyed his local celebrity. He cheerily shook hands with all the men who approached him and greeted the women with lavish hugs and kisses. Or, at least, that’s what he did with the women dressed in western clothes. He did not hug and kiss the ones in traditional dress; he knew the local protocols.

When Barney had arrived earlier in the evening at Morning Glory, no reference had been made to the message in red that had confronted the visitors earlier. They’d had drinks by the pool, so he hadn’t actually entered the villa and seen the evidence of the still-wet white paint. But Jude felt the subject ought to be raised, so she raised it.

‘Yes, I heard about that,’ said Barney. He didn’t say who he’d heard it from, but that didn’t seem important to Jude. She remembered Travers Hughes-Swann telling her that there were ‘no secrets in a place like Kayaköy’. The bush telegraph of brothers and cousins had no doubt been extremely efficient.

‘I’m sorry,’ Barney went on. ‘Not the greeting I would have wished for you. And, incidentally, it wasn’t aimed at you personally.’

‘Then who was it aimed at?’ asked Carole.

‘Just the Brits generally.’ There was an evasiveness in his eye which Jude recognized from some of the less happy moments in their long ago relationship.

‘But who would have done that? Nita told us most of the locals are somehow involved in the tourist industry and wouldn’t dream of doing anything to disrupt it.’

‘Yes, but there’s always an element. There’s a bunch of ultra-nationalist kids in Fethiye who resent us Brits profiting from their tourist trade.’

Jude reckoned he was lying, just making up an explanation so that they could move on to another subject of conversation. ‘Are you saying it was aimed at you, then?’ she persisted.

‘Probably. You can’t do the kind of work I do out here without putting a few backs up.’ He looked at their glasses. ‘I think we’re going to need another bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.’

‘Oh no,’ came the knee-jerk reaction from Carole.

‘Come on,’ said Barney. ‘I’m more than halfway down my bottle of red and feeling no pain. Have the second bottle.’

‘Well …’ said Carole.

‘Let’s go for it,’ said Jude. ‘After all, we are on holiday.’