The house on the cliff

them. However, many on the island still cherished a secret pride in them. The grandeur had faded from the family tradition, though my friends’ grandfather still acted like a great lord. They had been the feudal power around here since the days of the Venetians. The largest part of Sior Márkos’ purchase of what became the Villa Ánthimi estate had been Fokás family olive groves. The two grandsons who came to Corfu every summer were the stars of the boy gang. In the winter, they boarded at Athens College - their parents lived in Mesopotamia, where their father was an executive with a British oil company. In his youth, the Kónte it seems had shown some interest in the land, though as what was locally called a rentiéris , he derived most of his income from it - this was no longer the case. “Lean times sell land”, they say, and little by little the estate had shrunk down to the acre or two the manor house sat in. He still enjoyed game shooting, but his rambling range too had shrunk in old age and he only hunted close by (“As if I’d go off into the brambles!”) much to the terror of passersby. Strolling at ease through a populated area, you could be startled by a sudden, deafening report, the wild baying of dogs, and a stream of hoarse, muttered cursing before a white-haired gent in gaiters, a tweed jacket, and a tie, crossed your path, rifle slung over his shoulder and a pack of dogs at his heels, nodding politely as he stepped from under the olive trees onto the dirt road. If Tákis was “different”, like me a bit of an outcast, the Fokás brothers were the leaders of our childish world. Evgénios especially, tall, athletic, and appealing, with the air of a gracious conqueror. He was a hero out of an adventure story, the sort of boy who would rescue the afflicted and foil the evil-doer with effortless gallantry. His authority came naturally: he led us on adventures and charmed our way out of punishments. Only when Daddy was here, did he step with equal grace into the role of faithful lieutenant. Grigóris, one year younger, was a fainter version of his brother, even in appearance. They looked alike, but the younger boy’s curls were light brown to his brother’s gold, his blue eyes a shade paler. Looking back now, neither was truly handsome, but Evgénios carried himself that way, and that was the impression he gave. The brothers and I had something in common that distinguished us from the rest - the English language. Back then, in Corfu, Italian was still the second language of the educated elite, followed by French. English didn’t matter particularly. The brothers however, because of their father’s business contacts, had been brought up with an English nanny. They had private lessons in Italian in the summers, as this was the official language in their grandfather’s house, but between themselves, and later with me, they preferred to speak English. By the time we started spending time together, they were too old for a nanny, but too wild to be let loose unsupervised. Their father hired Rafe Davis as a tutor, as much to keep an eye on them as to