It was supposed to be our day off, lounging beside the pool of the Sandy Beach Hotel, in the town of Pyla on the coast of Cyprus, overlooking the glistening Mediterranean. Laura had vanished to the Philippines to attend to her dying mum, while I was lumbered with two preteens and was about to explode.
We had frittered away the best part of the day playing three-handed bridge on our balcony, under blistering summer sunshine, now fading into twilight. This would never have been allowed under their mother’s watch.
“Our last hand. Then we have to go for supper.” I had reconciled myself to another game.
‘Where are we going to eat?” the Monster asked, narrowing his eyes.
“There’s the Shambalaya down the road. It’s Indian.”
“Can’t we go to Rock Shots?”
“We’ve gone there every day since we arrived. Aren’t you fed up with it already? Besides, you order the same food each time—chicken in hot brown sauce. What’s the difference between that and chicken curry at the Shambalaya? What do you prefer, Alex?” I could sympathize with Plato’s take on democracy.
“Whatever you guys want. Really.” No bloody help at all.
I succumbed once again to the Monster’s wishes.
At Rock Shots, we were heralded like royalty and family rolled into one. Tony, the host, beamed as we walked in—his pleasure undisputedly genuine.
“I’ve got just the table for you, outside underneath some lights so you can see your cards. Who’s winning? Today’s special is chicken in hot brown sauce made by my mother.”
The Monster had found his home.
“Sorry boys, we can’t play. I left the cards at the hotel.”
“Aw, don’t worry Pops, I brought an extra pack just in case. And paper and pen as well.”
Tony, the balding, aging leader of a ‘70s rock band, The Rock Shots, was perennially framed in wall-to-wall photos of himself in shoulder-length hair with the rest of the band. The three other band members sat in a corner but would come ‘round to watch the epic struggle of the card game, cheering the Monster on. The restaurant rocked with music from The Beatles, The Hollies and Cilla Black, my boys vainly trying to guess the singer and song before their dad did. Greg—taciturn and thin as a rasher of bacon—had taken a shine to the Monster. Each night he would perform a new card trick for him.
“Food’s here.” With that, the bandsmen returned to their table to allow us to eat in peace.
As we left, Tony handed us home-grown figs in their prime, plucked from his garden in the back.
We walked towards our hotel, stopping at The Romantic Grocery and Gift Emporium along the way.
As soon as we entered, my boys left me. Their purchases made me grin from ear-to-ear—rosewater-flavoured Aphrodite Greek Delights (Turkish being frowned upon in this Greek sector of the island), English Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut chocolate bars, and, finally, Lucozade, a golden energy drink I had been allowed to sip on special occasions as a child in England. During this entire trip, the Monster had made it crystal clear how outdated his father was—yet here they were, both buying the same snacks their father had been brought up on.
Marching ahead of me as always, the boys stopped in next door at the taxi kiosk to chat with George. I was all but forgotten. Finally, with groceries in one hand, a strawberry ice-cream bar in the other, we sauntered across the street into the welcoming air-conditioned lobby of our hotel.
Seeing returned racquets at the reception desk, the Monster halted abruptly and grabbed my arm.
“Can we play tennis?”
The boys dashed up the stairs, three steps at a time, to their room. Once changed, they met up at the court in front of the hotel, Pops laden with euros to feed the meter for the floodlights. We played round robins of a set each, until the lights went out.
“Alex? Pops? One more set?” The Monster was, as usual winning every game, the same as at cards.
“Sorry, I’ve run out of change.” I sent up a quick prayer of thanks. “We’ll continue tomorrow.”
Heat and fatigue finally caught up with us—each must have lost five pounds in sweat alone. The boys raised no objection to their father calling snack time on the balcony before bed.
Far below in the lobby, the pianist plunked out the final tired notes of The Long and Winding Road. I sat back, absently clutching my bottle of Lucozade and box of Aphrodites. A wisp of a memory—listening to the Beatles at a friend’s home, sipping forbidden coffee and staying up all night—wafted away on the warm breeze. I drank my Lucozade one sip at a time, as though it were my last. The Monster, however, guzzled his in seconds, reaching in for another from his father’s seemingly endless supply.