The Santorini Summer Read Online Free PDF

were always dismissed after lunch because of the heat, and then left to our own devices. We were expected to spend our free time studying or visiting the museum in Heraklion where many of the artefacts found at the site were on display. In reality, we usually went off to the beach to sunbathe and gossip. The men, however, were required to continue working until five. I would rather have stayed on, too, because at least then I could see Christos in the distance, and time went faster when I was at the site. The hours between two and seven seemed endless.
    We were usually ready for our evening meal by seven. It became our habit to meet up with the other girls and walk along the main (and only) street, looking at each taverna in turn and trying to decide which menu we preferred. In reality, since the menus were almost identical every evening, we were looking to see which taverna the men had chosen. Sometimes we had to make a choice because the men had yet to appear, and then we would all be on tenterhooks in case they chose another eating place. But it was surprising how often our choices coincided. Then there would be a polite conversation about our willingness to accept their company before tables and chairs were reorganised to fit the larger group and each English girl was seated next to a Greek boy.
    My two dresses had to do service time and time again. After several evenings of this I surveyed them both with disgust. Maureen saw me frowning and gave me a sympathetic smile. I threw the dresses down in despair.
    ‘Do you know, I’m getting fed up with this situation. The clothes I brought with me are all unsuitable for this climate. And I’m sick of looking so dowdy compared to the Americans. There must be some shops in Heraklion. What about a shopping trip?’
    ‘I haven’t noticed any clothes shops,’ Maureen said, doubtfully.
    ‘The Greek women must get their clothes from somewhere. Sophia is about our age. I’ll ask her.’
    Sophia, our landlord’s daughter, served breakfast and changed our beds. She spoke little English but she smiled a lot. The following morning I went looking for her, armed with pencil and paper. She was hanging washing on a line at the back of the house. With much use of mime, I explained what we wanted. Sophia obligingly drew a sketch of roads in Heraklion where we would find some clothes shops, and added the times of the local bus.
    ‘Are you sure you want me along?’ asked Maureen. ‘I’m not likely to be much help where clothes are concerned.’
    I wanted company, not fashion advice, and I thought Maureen could only benefit from this expedition.
    After lunch, we took the bus, got off at the terminus, and followed the map. We found ourselves in a district of narrow cobbled streets full of doorways which were adorned with various garments hanging, rather forlornly, from coat hangers. The interiors of the shops were dark and unwelcoming.
    ‘It’s not Oxford Street, is it?’ said Maureen doubtfully.
    ‘We’ll look for one with a youngish assistant,’ I said, sounding more confident than I felt.
    So we walked along, trying to peer beyond the garment-draped doorways to judge the ages of the serving staff. When we’d exhausted all the possibilities we were back to where we’d started.
    ‘Oh, I don’t know. Let’s just walk into the next shop we pass.’
    This proved to be a good strategy. Once inside, face to face with an assistant, we were forced to overcome our diffidence, and it became apparent that goods were available, just not displayed as we were used to. Our sizes were expertly judged, drawers and cupboards opened, and we were ushered into primitive fitting rooms. The clothes on offer were made of a fine, light cotton, sometimes beautifully embroidered, usually sleeveless, and altogether more wearable than our English clothes. They were also remarkably cheap. I became quite intoxicated with the freedom they promised, and made many more purchases than I’d intended. Even