The house on the cliff

horrified. And in spite of it he was so calm, so kind. To the point of saying how pleased he was to meet me, as though it were something long anticipated. Me! I started rubbing at my knees with the pumice, carefully, so the stone didn’t snag on a fresh scab. Perhaps, if I did this regularly, my knees might be less rough and grubby-looking. Maybe I ought to wear long trousers for a while. I started on my elbows, soaping the pumice stone again. The big green cube of Marseille soap was an awkward size and shape and kept slipping out of my hand. It was olive oil soap, the same kind Loxándra shaved curls off to wash clothes. Scented soap was a rare find in Greece after the war. When we did get hold of some (Lux, or Pears soap from England for Daddy) it was reserved for the adults or for special occasions. My stranger had treated me as if I were an adult, despite my childish behaviour, despite my having declared myself a child! Afterwards, though, he had spoiled everything by forbidding me to go back. But then, when I had refused to give him my word I wouldn’t, he didn’t force me to, he didn’t get angry, he didn’t scold me or forbid it outright, the way my parents would have. That must mean he was leaving it up to me, right? The next thing that occurred to me undid me. Did he have any choice? He had accepted my threats because he couldn’t do otherwise! Because everything I had flung at him in my childish tantrum was true. His life was in my hands. He was my prisoner. This tall, tired, pale man with the sad eyes was at my mercy and I could do whatever I liked with him. I slid further into the bath water, now soapy enough to sting my eyes. If I had been some kind of crybaby I would have burst into tears. “My prisoner”, that was how I was starting to think of him. Innocently, without shame, rather with a sort of possessive pride, like a butterfly collector who had caught in his net an especially rare and beautiful specimen. Neither did I feel any guilt, since I had no intention of harming him, no urge to stick a pin in him and mount him on velvet for my collection. Instead I wanted to free him, to deprive myself of him and set him free, make a generous donation of him to the world at large, to make things easier for him, to liberate him from his enemies, to save him - whether he wanted me to or not! I didn’t care what he might have done. Was I not well-supplied with examples of famous fugitives, unjustly pursued? Robin Hood, the Scarlet Pimpernel, Arsene Lupin, thieves and smugglers to be sure, but noble of purpose and pure of heart. I knew the shoreline here better than anyone. Better than his crummy old “arrangers”. I would guide him to freedom and gain not only his gratitude but also his admiration, his respect. There would be a full moon tomorrow. Even supposing my arrival at the cave had made him change plans, he would have to wait for a moonless night if he wanted to leave by boat. By land, he would have to go through our garden, with the dogs on the loose - he couldn’t know they had been sent away.