Island 1

Marnie drains her glass, then places it back on the table

“I hear George is back on the island next week”

She looks at the bottle meaningfully.

Patience takes the hint and refills everyone.

“Lord George”

Marnie picks up her glass again and looks over at me.

“He’s the world’s leading expert on erotica. Not porn.”

Patience smiles gently and looks down at her hands “oh no, not porn.”

Another cat stalks through the courtyard. We’ve been here at least four hours and I’m still not sure how many cats Patience has – thousands it seems - they just keep coming. It’s dark but still really warm – and the air’s heavily scented - everything blooms here months before it would in England. I take another sip of wine. There isn’t much else to do, except listen to these two women discuss the other people on the island.

“I wonder who he’s bringing with him this time – the Russian Princess or the Frenchwoman?”

“So Baba is still alive? Goodness”

“Oh yes at least I think she is. Do you remember the time when she nearly got arrested for being naked in the cathedral at midnight?”

“…except the local police said they’d let her off if they could come to the party on the hill – do you remember? Extraordinary little man with the thing about statuary, and his fourth wife died in mysterious circumstances, so then he built the shrine….was he at the RA when you were there?”

On and on they go, and I let it wash over me, which isn’t hard because I’m slightly drunk. I’d love to disappear off on my own, but it would be rude, so I stay. This is how they fill their days and so it’s what I have to do too. I am not going to live like this when I get to their age. I don’t know how they bear it.

There’s a short pause, while we all sip our wine, then Marnie launches into another story – another drunken party in the seventies – people jumping into the sea in the middle of the night, swearing they can reach the next island, people falling off walls, fights, affairs, suicide attempts. I begin to wonder if any of them were ever sober – but they must have been – they all had successful careers, made quite a lot of money – some of them. It’s mostly all gone now; they’re asset rich, with these beautiful houses, crammed with art, wonderful things – stuff you can’t find anymore, but hardly any of them have any ready cash. Some get small EU grants, but I’m not quite sure what for. They don’t seem to do anything much.

“Well..” Marnie looks vaguely around for her stick. Hooray – we can go. I feel about sixteen as I duck under the table to retrieve it for her – anything to get us out of here a little quicker - they are so fucking slow! I’m not intimidated anymore, like I used to be – they don’t frighten me; I’ve found that the way to do it, is to throw a question in every now and again – then they’re quite happy to ramble on for another twenty minutes – you don’t actually have to join in, not in any meaningful way.

We walk slowly back up the village street in the inky darkness – only one or two lights which don’t work all that well, but it doesn’t seem to matter because the beautiful pale stone which is used for everything here, has a kind of luminosity and the walls either side of us shine out, lighting our way. This is such an odd village – about a third of the houses are lived in, mostly full time, by artists – all different nationalities.

The rich people who want beachside villas go to the other side of the island. This place is too remote for them. The locals are mostly all farmers still – up at dawn to drive their sheep out to pasture, and in bed by nine. By midnight, all you can hear are cats disagreeing with each other over one thing or another, and Marnie’s stick, as we make our way back - and then her voice – loud, strident – “fuck! fuck!” because she can’t seem to unlock the door. I let her try for a bit – I think it’s important that she manages to do things herself, but after a while I offer to have a go because clearly we’ll be out here all night otherwise.

It’s a farmhouse – ancient, and beautiful of course, like all Marnie’s houses, and the door’s huge – I think it must have been built for carts to go through - the wood is so old, almost petrified. There’s an iron catch next to the more modern keyhole, and you have to do something complicated in order to make them work together. I take over and try until my fingers are sore, but it doesn’t seem to be working, and Marnie stands close to me, watching, and saying fuck a lot. After about ten minutes, she says there’s only one thing for it, and she takes her stick, and quite casually puts it through one of the windows. The sound of shattering glass echoes into the night and it sets the dogs off barking – one after the other – you can hear it go down the street in a kind of Mexican wave. I stick my hand in, to unbolt the window from inside before Marnie has a chance to – there are great jagged pieces of glass sticking up out of the frame – then I hurry back round to the door to open it. A cockerel starts to crow. “ Is there a broom or something?” I ask; the outer courtyard glitters with shards – it was a big window

“Oh don’t worry about that now darling. I’m sure Giovanni will be along tomorrow – he’s frightfully clever. He can do it. Let’s have another glass of wine before bed, I want you to tell me about this man – who he is for instance – he does sound like a very good idea, and I have something important to ask you about the cottage – another favour I’m afraid. I must try not to lean though….” and she sails in through the beautiful but crumbling sixteenth century arch, head held high.