The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [99]
The Robertses soon forgot all about Mr. and Mrs. Kendall-Hume once they looked out of the little airplane windows to admire the west coast of Turkey highlighted by the setting sun. The plane landed in the port of Izmir just as the shimmering red ball disappeared behind the highest hill. Another bus, even older than the earlier one, ensured that the Robertses reached their little guesthouse just in time for late supper.
Their room was tiny but clean, and the owner much in the same mold. He greeted them both with exaggerated gesturing and a brilliant smile that augured well for the next twenty-one days. 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 car rental 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 captain in the “Birds Eye” commercial, 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,” the schoolmaster admitted as handshakes were exchanged.
“What about a drink? Gin, vodka, or … ?”
“Oh, no,” said Margaret. “Thank you very much, we’ll both have 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 vacation. 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 vacation 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