The bus was absolutely packed. Eugene didn't think he'd be able to get on, never mind find a seat, but the Grumpy Conductor asked him where he wanted to go, simply pushed him on, and he managed to find a fairly comfortable place to stand near the middle doors. Most of the passengers were hushed tourists, though there were some 'locals', giggling boys and girls, a few older shoppers, and two or three soldiers. At nine-thirty precisely, the bus moved off, and the Conductor was still heaving his way through the throng, collecting fares. After not more than five hundred meters slow progress, the vehicle stopped abruptly. No-one else got on, but the Conductor got off. Eugene felt the whole company sigh with relief, and the tourists began to chatter. A little later, the bus stopped again so that a couple of teenagers could get off, though an old lady with several parcels got on, firmly if hardly gently assisted by two soldiers.

They came to a big village where the bus stopped outside a supermarket so that more teenagers could get off, as did the old lady, again helped by the soldiers. They, however, regained their places. Still, the pressure was to some extent off, and the bus did a left turn on to a winding, climbing road. By this time, Eugene stood quite comfortably by a window, and could see the view of The Mountain. At its summit, it was craggy and bare, but below, carpeted with pine-forest among which he could see groups of tiny white houses and several blue-capped churches.

Some fifteen minutes later, the bus stopped in an open square with a grand church where a taverna was occupied by a few tourists, their hired cars parked beside it. A woman with a little girl got off, the child chattering to two older girls, and so did the soldiers, by then also intent on conversation with young women, though probably not for the same reason!

The road climbed on, pine-fringed to one side, precipitous to the other, until the bus reached its destination. The village wasn't crowded. Shops and cafes lined its square. Still it felt to Eugene that the crowd pressed on him as they all poured from the bus, and he desperately wanted a cigarette. A shop near where the bus had stopped advertised their sale, so he went in, intending simply to buy a pack and then find somewhere to have a drink. As well as cigarettes, however, the shop sold souvenirs, mostly pretty kitsch and available everywhere, yet some articles caught his eye. They were wooden toys, hand-carved, and he thought of his little niece. He looked through the selection, and found a donkey, firm-footed, but with a nodding head and wagging tail, and he took it to the desk where the shopkeeper, a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman, sat. He inquired the price, and said that he would take it. The woman asked if it were for a present, and he said, yes, it was for his small niece. The woman wrapped it carefully, first in pale-pink tissue, then in blue-and-gold paper which she fastened with a tiny slip of transparent tape. Finally, she wound the little parcel in golden ribbon, tied it, fringed the ends, and made them into an elegant rosette. 'Thank you,' he said. 'My niece will love that.'

'How old is she?'

'Three.'

'Ah, yes. When my son was little, he loved presents that came in pretty parcels.'

'You speak English very well.'

'I was born in Australia. Not my son. He is all Greek.'

'How old is he now?' Eugene checked at his impertinence. 'I'm sorry. That was rude.'

'No, no. He's twenty five. He's a soldier, an officer.'

Impulsively, he said, 'You must be very proud of him.'

'Yes, but now I fear for him. For many years, our army is all for show. Now I think he must go to Yugoslavia. Still, what can I do?'

Not until he was about to pay for the donkey did he remember his cigarettes. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I need a pack of cigarettes too.'

'No problem.'

Eugene expected the village still to be crowded as he left the shop, but it wasn't. What had seemed to be an immense number of people on the bus had melted so that only a few couples and families strolled and browsed among the shops. He wanted a drink, and looked at nearby places, though none took his fancy, and he wandered a little way along the street. Not far away, it divided, the main street to the left, a steep pathway to the right, and he chose the pathway. A little way up, he came to a cafe that looked acceptable, not 'touristy', with simple chairs and tables, and he sat on its terrace and lit a cigarette till someone might come to serve him.

The waiter was a beaming man in his thirties. He spoke good English but, unlike the woman in the shop, with quite a pronounced accent and, when he brought beer, Eugene said, as he often found himself doing, 'You speak very good English.'

'I am born here but I am three years in England. My wife is English.'

'What did you do in England?'

The waiter smiled. 'I am car-park attendant in Weston-super-Mare!'

Eugene laughed, really rather too loudly, then corrected himself and said, 'I'm sorry. But it just seems so funny for a Greek to be a car-park attendant in Weston-super-Mare.'

'Is funny. Is very funny. But is good for me. I get many tips because I am Greek. You know there is funny man on English tv? Name is Harry Enfield. Makes Greek man called Stavros. Customers call me Stavros. I am Stavros. Many, many tips! Hello, Peeps!' He laughed, much too loudly.

Not truly sure why, for he could hardly remember the character, Eugene laughed with him. Then he said, 'What is there to see in the village?'

The waiter sat down. 'Ah,' he said. 'Is best to climb up along the path. Church at top is very beautiful. Past church, path goes down by many beautiful old houses. Then is road. Turn left, and you are back in square. Village is not big.'

'What happens if I don't turn left? Can I go straight on?'

'Yes, yes. Then is the Mountain. After not long, road is not good. Very rough, very hard to climb, but very, very beautiful. You can see out to the sea and other islands. Not many people. Keep always to left, and you come to little taverna near beautiful, beautiful church. Excuse me.' Some more people had come in.

Eugene looked at the bill stuffed into a little glass and took notes from his wallet to pay it, then swallowed the last of his beer and stood to leave. The waiter came to say goodbye and Eugene held out his hand. 'Thank you, Stavros,' he said.

The man laughed. 'I am Stavros, but I am not Stavros. My name is Christos, but if you are in Weston-super-Mare, please tell them Stavros still loves them!'

Just as Christos-Stavros had said, the church and the old houses were beautiful, and Eugene clicked his camera many times. Similarly, the road ceased to be metalled and became a rough track where the scent of the pine-trees was overwhelming and the view spectacular. He did as he had been told, and followed the road always to the left, expecting to see the church and taverna where the bus had stopped on the way up, but he didn't. Instead, he came to a hairpin left turn below which a tiny taverna was set against the rock-face. An elderly man sat outside in the sun doing, apparently, nothing, a tiny dog asleep at his feet, and Eugene decided to stop to have a drink and ask where he had gone wrong. The man got up as he approached, and greeted him in German. The dog woke, stood up to give a perfunctory yap but, at her master's command, curled up again and went back to sleep.

Eugene said, 'I'm English. I'm afraid I don't speak anything else. Well, schoolboy French.'

The man spoke in English. 'No problem. As it happens, I am English. Just been here a long time, and most of my customers are German. They like walking, so they come up here. The English, I'm afraid, generally don't. What can I get you?' The dog woke again and sniffed at Eugene's feet, and the man said, 'Don't mind Yotta. She's harmless. Too small to be anything else!'

'I'd like a beer, please. And some information.' Eugene bent to pet the little dog, and she wagged her tail in appreciation before she went to sleep again.

'Beer first. Information to follow.' The man went into the restaurant and came back with a bottle and a glass on a tray. 'I'm afraid this is the only beer I've got,' he said. 'I'm waiting for a delivery, but the truck can't get up here, so I either have to get it myself, or wait for someone to bring it in a little pick-up. Is that all right?'

'Fine.' Eugene poured his beer.

'So what would you like to know?' The man sat at the table.

'I thought I could get to the square with the church and taverna where the bus stops if I came this way.'

'Ah. You can. But it's another half-hour or so's walk down the hill. What's the time?'

Eugene looked at his watch. 'Nearly half-past one.'

'Then I'm afraid you've missed the bus. There isn't another one till half-past three.'

'I don't mind. I wouldn't mind something to eat.'

'Menu's on the table. I've got most of it, but there's no 'Special' today. It was going to be Cassoulet, but I forgot about soaking the beans yesterday. They're in now, so I'll sort it out before I go home and leave it on overnight. Be excellent tomorrow, if you feel like coming back.'

'Don't know about that.' Eugene studied the menu. 'How big are these 'snacks'?'

'Not huge. Two or three with bread and a salad make a sensible meal. My yigantes are quite famous. I know 'butter beans' sound boring, but these are cooked in a spicy tomato sauce, with wine.'

'All right. I'll have those and some meat-balls. And a Greek salad.'

'Coming up.' The old man went into the kitchen.

A little later, a Jeep pulled up outside, blocking the road, and the driver got out. Yotta didn't seem to like him very much, and yapped fiercely. The old man was there at once, explaining in German that there was a car-park twenty meters further on. The driver sighed and groaned, and got back into the car. Nevertheless, a few moments later, just as the old man was serving Eugene with his lunch, the family came in, the parents talking sharply, the children silent and sullen. They ordered beer and Coke, and the old man went to get it. When he came back, he served them, and then sat at Eugene's table. 'D'you mind if I sit here?' he said.

'Not at all. This food is very good.'

'Thank you, sir. Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?'

Eugene shook his head, for his mouth was full, but then the German father indicated that something more was required, so the old man went to take the order. When he returned with icecream and coffee, Eugene had almost finished eating. The old man came again to sit with him, and Eugene said, 'This is really delicious. What were you going to ask me?'

'When I meet people, I like to look at them and think what their names might be.' He studied Eugene. 'I think you look like a 'David'. Am I right?'

Eugene laughed. 'I'm afraid not,' he said. 'I'd love to be a 'David'. When I was little, I wanted to change my name to David, or John, or Chris. Something ordinary, but I'm afraid my name's Eugene.'

'What's wrong with that? It's a beautiful name. Greek. Do you know what it means?'

'No. I never thought about it. I never thought about it having a meaning.'

'Well, in ordinary terms, it means 'polite', but when it's a name, it means 'noble'. I think it suits you.'

'In primary school, they called me 'Uge'. I hated it. I still do. In secondary school, after a while, they started to call me 'Donkey'.'

''Donkey?' Why on earth did they call you 'Donkey'?'

'They said it was because I had a big . . . ' Eugene hesitated, then lowered his voice. ' . . . penis.'

A couple of hardy walkers came in, and the old man excused himself and went to serve them. They wanted to eat, albeit only salad, so it was some little time before the old man returned to sit by Eugene. 'Well.' he said. 'Have you?'

'Have I what?'

'Have you got a big penis?'

Eugene smiled. 'I don't think so. Not particularly. I think they called me that because donkeys are supposed to be 'huge' and my name was 'Uge'. Could I have a coffee and a brandy?'

'No problem. Milk and sugar?'

'No sugar.'

The old man nodded. 'Three or five star?'

'Sorry?'

'Three or five star brandy.'

'What's the difference?'

'Thirty lepta - sorry, cents. Seriously, though, the five is superior.'

'All right. For an extra eighteen pence, I'll have five star.'

'Is thirty lepta really eighteen English pence? Gosh! How did you do that?'

'I'm good at doing sums in my head. I have a secret even worse than being called Eugene.'

'What's that?'

'I'm an accountant!'

People came and went, really not many, but enough to mean that it was past half-past two before the old man came again to sit with Eugene. Eugene was smoking a cigarette, and the old man said, 'Thank God someone who isn't Greek still smokes! I've been dying for a fag for ages, but I haven't had time.'

Eugene offered his packet, and the old man accepted. 'I'm sorry. I know your name, but I haven't told you mine.'

'Don't. Let me try your game.Let me try to guess.' He studied the old man. 'I think you look like a John.'

'Bravo! Well done! These days, most people call me Yannis. Still, John is what my mother called me. Listen, I think you're going to have to move if you're going to catch that bus.'

'I don't want to. I like it here. Have you got a telephone?'

'Yes.'

'Well, if I stay a while, could you get me a taxi?'

'No problem. Where are you staying?'

'In the Town. I don't mind paying for a taxi. I know the name of the hotel.'

'Amazing how many people don't! If you stay till I'm closing up, about six, I can take you in my car. If you like.'

'I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble.' Eugene repeated, 'I don't mind paying for a taxi. Can I have another brandy.'

'Of course, but it wouldn't be any trouble. Honestly. Have this brandy on me. I'm going to have an ouzo before I sort out the cassoulet.'

'What is 'cassoulet'? I hate to sound ignorant.'

'Rather superior baked beans. You cook them very slowly with pork, bacon, chunks of sausage, tomatoes, wine, and lots and lots of garlic.'

'Sounds delicious.'

'It is! Let me get our drinks before someone else turns up. I think you'd call it Sod's Law. When I've got pleasant company to talk to, someone always does.'

Yotta got up, stretched, yawned, and went out into the road. There, she spread her feet to stand firmly, and began to yap. John came back with the drinks, sat down, and said, 'Oh, dear! They're here.'

'Who?'

'You'll see.'

Moments later, and elderly pick-up came round the corner and stopped outside. The little dog ran round and round it, yapping furiously. A moustachioed man got out, followed by two children, and Yotta went mad. She yapped and snarled, and the children got hastily back into the van. Only then did she calm down. The man stooped to pet her, and she came back to her station, by then at Eugene's feet, but she didn't go to sleep, just kept her eye on the van and let out an occasional snarl.

John got up to greet the man, shook his hand, and began to help him unload crates from the pick-up. Eugene, too, got up to help, until the delivery was complete, the man had handed over a paper to John who signed it and paid for the goods. The little truck drove on up the hill, Eugene thought, to turn round and come back, but it didn't. 'Where did it go?' he said.

'The way you came. They live over there.'

'On that road? That van doesn't look as though it could make it.'

'Been doing it for ten years, to my knowledge. Probably longer.'

'Why does Yotta hate those kids so much?'

John sighed. 'Their bloody mother. Brought them up to believe all dogs are vicious beasts intent on eating children. I ask you! Yotta's, what, ten inches high by fifteen long? She'd have trouble savaging a mouse!'

'Inches!' Eugene laughed. 'I'd have thought you'd be all centimeters.'

'I'm fine with centimeters too, but you must remember I was brought up with pounds, shillings and ounces.'

'Winnie the Pooh! 'Ounces' to rhyme with 'bounces' because of Tigger. Gosh! My mother used to read it to me. I never understood that line, but I never asked, and she never explained. It wasn't until I was at university that someone explained it to me. Now I read A.A.Milne to myself. I keep copies of all the books in my toilet. I call them 'The Loo-Pooh Collection'.'

A little before six, John said, 'Well, I think that's it. Time to shut up shop and go home.'

'Don't you live here?'

'No. I have a house down the road. The owner and his girlfriend live here, in the flat upstairs. Well, sleep here. They have a rather busier restaurant near the beach. Usually, I only see them if I go down in the evening. They go out about seven in the morning and don't get back till nearly midnight. Sometimes they come up in the afternoon, but not often. Too busy. I'm afraid we'll have to stop at my house for a moment though. I have another dog, and she'll want her supper. The car's down by the house anyway. I make myself walk up here to keep the old knees moving, though I always have a stick these days.'

It was, perhaps, five minutes walk down an abrupt, twisting incline until they came to an open square where an imposing church was stacked above them at the top of steep steps. Eugene paused and Yotta, who had gone ahead, ran back to flop at his feet. 'I'd like to take a photograph,' he said. 'It occurs to me that I'll have to come back. I haven't got any pictures of you and the restaurant.'

They resumed the walk down the hill. John said, 'If you take any pictures of me, please don't show them to me. I don't like seeing what age and dissolution have brought me to!'

The car was parked opposite a little house with chickens scratching in its garden, beside which a flight of uneven, rocky steps climbed again. John said, 'I'm afraid my house is at the top of those steps.' He sighed. 'Sometimes I think I'll have to move. Sometimes, the climb is almost too much for me. It isn't too bad going up, but I do worry about coming down.'

They were less than half-way up when a dog began to bark. John shouted, 'Shut up, Garbo! Skasé, re!' Yotta was well ahead of them and, when the bigger dog came into view, she was strutting in front of it. 'Éla, Yotta. Mésa! Inside!'

John led through a huge 'farmhouse' kitchen into a room furnished with a single bed, a sofa, a desk with a computer, a television, and several bookcases. A corner table supported bottles and glasses, and John said, 'I must go to the loo and get on with dealing with the animals. Help yourself to a drink. I'm afraid I don't have any beer, but there's brandy and Scotch. If you want ice, you'll have to find it in the freezer. I'll be as quick as I can. Sit out on the balcony if you like. The view's wonderful.'

Eugene looked round the room. There were pictures on the walls dominated by an oil painting of a naked man, his body twisted poetically in a sinuous attitude. Above the desk was a sequence of framed photographs, also of a young man, a different one, but also apparently nude, though the poses cut him off at the waist. Many of the books were in Greek or German, but there was a shelf of books in English by William Burrows and Edmund White, and the volumes by the desk were clearly for reference, dictionaries, Roget's Thesaurus, atlases, histories, a complete Shakespeare, the works of Oscar Wilde. Eugene poured himself a brandy and went to sit on the balcony to smoke a cigarette. Yotta came to lie at his feet, chewing a bone.

'Have I got time for an ouzo?' John called from the kitchen.

'As long as you like! It's heavenly here. I think I could sit here forever.'

John brought his drink and came to sit beside him. 'Yes. It is lovely. It's why I put up with the climb. There isn't anywhere else like it.'

'Tell me, why do you call the big dog 'Garbo'?'

'Hah! Well, she doesn't really like anyone. Not even me, except that I feed her. Years ago there was a Norwegian actress called Greta Garbo who was famous for saying 'I vant to be alone', and that sums up the dog. I inherited her from some Norwegian people who thought they wanted to live here, but didn't when it came down to it. Two reasons for calling the dog 'Garbo'.'

'Swedish. Greta Garbo was Swedish. She was Queen Christina and Ninotchka.'

'You're a film-buff?'

'Not really, but I've got a lot of ancient movies on video. They don't make 'em like they used to! I really don't like blood-and-gore and special effects so I collect old films. I wouldn't say it was a passion, but it takes the sting out of accountancy.'

'Say when you want to make a move.' John finished his drink.

'There's no hurry, honestly. I love it here.'

'In that case, I shall have another one. Join me?'

'I'm all right for the moment.' John was inside re-filling his glass when Eugene said, 'May I ask you a personal question?'

The old man sat down. 'Of course you can ask, though I may not answer.'

Eugene studied the inside of his glass and hesitated. 'Well . . .' He looked up into John's face. 'Are you . . . gay?'

John smiled. 'Of course I am. I've been married - I have grown-up children and a beautiful granddaughter - but I always have been. Don't worry! I don't jump on people. Well, not these days, anyway.'

Eugene was serious. 'I can't imagine you ever did.'

'No. I never did. Only when invited. I'm sorry. I was being flippant. You've finished your drink. Can I get you another one?'

'Yes, please. You know, I don't feel in the slightest bit drunk.'

'One doesn't. I think it comes with relief.'

'Relief? I don't understand.'

'The relief that comes from asking what one thinks is a delicate question and getting a direct answer.' John sipped his drink and swallowed, for he knew he hadn't spoken his mind.

'I need the toilet.' Eugene stood up, perhaps a little unsteadily. 'Where is it, please?'

'Through the door and to the left. Be careful on the steps. They're higher than you think.' He watched the young man cross the room, leave the door open, thought of his face, quite pale, freckled, the hair brownish, perhaps bordering on copper. Not beautiful.

Eugene was gone for some minutes, and John wondered if he were being sick, for he had drunk a lot of brandy, though there were no sounds of distress. He went to the door and called softly, 'Are you all right?'

'Yes. I'm fine. Can you come here a minute?'

'What's the matter?'

'Nothing. Can you come here a minute? Please.'

When John reached the top of the bathroom steps, the young man rose from the toilet. He had taken off his tee-shirt and his shorts were round his ankles. The old man considered the body, narrow, freckled like the face, the penis filled though not completely. He said, 'I think they were right to call you 'Donkey'. I've seen a few, and that's big.'

Eugene stepped from his shorts, went to the old man, hugged him, wept, and John whispered, 'When I said 'relief', I really meant the relief that comes from admitting something you've wanted to admit for a long time. Don't worry. It's all right.' He moved away a little and said, 'Put your shorts on and come and sit outside. We'll talk.' He stood back. 'I'd have thought you'd have trouble in the sun, with your complexion.'

They sat back on the balcony and Eugene said, 'It's funny, what you said about the sun. When I was eight, we had our first real holiday. In Cornwall. I think my old man had a win on the dogs. Anyway, I suffered with the sun. It was agony. Ruined the holiday. After that, I kept covered up. Until I was in college. Then I went to Spain with some friends, and I've never had a problem since. Strange.'

'Not really. The body accommodates. Listen, do you want to get back to your hotel?'

'No. Only if I must. Can't I stay here tonight? I'll sleep on the balcony.'

'Of course you can stay, but don't be silly. You don't have to sleep on the balcony. I do have a bedroom. I don't often use it myself, but you're welcome to it.' He stood up. 'I think we should have something to eat, a few drinks, and a long talk.'

As they were about to leave the next morning, Eugene paused to take photographs of John and Yotta outside the back-door of the house before they descended the terrible steps to reach the car. It wasn't exactly a new car, and John apologised for it. 'I know she's getting on, but she takes me about, and she's never let me down. So far!'

Eugene said, 'This isn't the way I came. Where are we going?'

'Town, but I like to drive along by the sea. I like to check-up on it. Make sure it's still really there.'

At last, he stopped the car right outside Eugene's hotel. Eugene said, 'I can't thank you enough for looking after me. I'll see you again before I go.'

But he didn't.

Instead, he picked up on something the old man had told him, and took the 1 o'clock bus out to the seaside village they had driven through that morning, walked along the road parallel to the beach until the shops and sun-beds finished, and found the stretch of dunes where most people didn't bother with swimwear. Himself, he didn't swim or sunbathe naked, for he was far too inhibited, but there he met William, and William changed his life.

William was probably somewhat younger than Eugene, indeed, probably still is! He strolled past Our Young Man sunning himself in a hole in the dunes, pretty conscious of his smooth, sveldt, tanned body. Oh, yes. William was proud of his body. Moments later, he came back, glanced at Eugene, who looked away, and strolled on. William is still proud of his body, and so he should be, not only because it's pretty good, but also because it took a lot of hard work, not to mention money, to get it like that.

William had been a Fat Kid and had initially suffered at school, as do all Fat Kids. However, William was also a Clever Kid and, somewhere around the age of thirteen when his balls dropped and he realised the truth of what had occurred to him for some time before, which is to say that he was also a Queer Kid, he decided to do something about it. Not the Queerness, but the Fatness.

William didn't know where his father was, in fact, he didn't know who his father was. His mother didn't seem to work, but also seemed to be pretty well-heeled, probably because she did know where his father was. Anyway, she certainly indulged her son, which is to say, in the words of her mother, she 'spoiled him rotten', and that tendency led to his obese stature. Indulgence meant chocolate and cream cakes, of both of which his mother was also inordinately fond. Unfortunately, while incessant consumption of such delicacies hardly affected her trim figure, William blew up like a barrage-balloon.

When William made his decision to do something about his rotundity, his mother was against the idea, saying that it was all 'puppy' fat, and that it would go away of its own accord in good time. However, his grandmother didn't agree, and stole profusely from her daughter so that William might eat the 'right' food - costly steaks and salads - and attend a not-inexpensive gymnasium. The effect was magical. Within weeks, his clothes began to fall off him so that his grandmother was recourse to steal even more to buy him new ones. Within a year, he had achieved his goal.

His 'goal' was called Lester, and was in the lower-Sixth, thus two years older. He was very good-looking, dashing, and popular. And friendly. Even when William had been the Fat Kid, Lester had often befriended him when no-one else did. Consequently, when the time came, it wasn't difficult for William to make his move. When!

The event occurred on Sports' Day. Since his transformation, William had become an efficient if hardly talented athlete, able to collect points for his House in the 400, 800 and 1500 meters. He eschewed playing rugby, which might have damaged the appearance of his hard-fought-for physique. Still, that day, to his own surprise, he actually won the 'mile', largely because the 'favourite', Ken, a skinny Chinese with a beautiful face, tripped and fell in the final dash.

Lester came fourth, and trotted up to congratulate William. 'Pity about poor old Ken,' he said. 'Still, well done. You ran a good race.'

'Ta, Love. How about a wander down the Old Pavillion?'

'What? I didn't know you smoked.' The 'Old Pavillion' was, needless to say, littered with cigarette-butts.

'I don't. But that's what everyone'll think and no-one'll follow. Not the done thing. Come on.'

Thus it was that William got, so to speak, inside Lester's shorts. They remained Very Close Friends until Lester left for university some fifteen months later. After that, William never saw him again. Well, not for a fair few years anyway.

The summer before he began university, William's mother took him to The Island. Against his mother's wishes, his grandmother came too, but it was to be a special gift for William to reward him for having passed his A-levels, and William wanted it, so what could she do? The old woman was an interfering old cow, but William doted on her. Still, she couldn't last much longer and, in truth, she didn't. While they were on that holiday, neither woman saw much of William who had found the 'right' bars and the 'right' beach and had had much sex with many Germans and Scandinavians. One evening, after a 'triste' with three Finns, William returned to the hotel to find that his grandmother had had a massive heart-attack and died. Taking her body back to England proved to be something of a difficult chore, but at least making the arrangements kept his mother occupied for the rest of the holiday. Anyway, whether it was because of that event or, more likely, because of the pulling-power of Finns, The Island became William's favourite holiday haunt thenceforward.

Back on the beach that other fateful day, Eugene was thinking deeply about the Young Man who had twice passed and observed him, and regretting not having acknowledged him. He needn't have, for, not a lot later, William passed again, and then, Eugene looked squarely at him. The fourth time, William stopped and said stiffly, 'Do you speak English?'

'I am English.'

William sat down in the sand. 'I thought you might be Irish with your complexion.'

'My father was Irish.' Eugene lied, though he didn't truly know it. For all he could remember, his father might have been Irish. 'He's dead.' Eugene lied again, again unknowingly.

'I don't know my father. He could be dead or alive, Irish or Albanian. I have no idea.' He slipped a hand inside Eugene's shorts. 'My God!' he said. 'That's quite something you've got there.'

Well, to cut a short story even shorter, William and Eugene became Firm Friends over the next few days, which accounted for Eugene not keeping his vow to return to visit the old man on The Mountain.

Eugene had always been good at sums. In the infants' school, he had outclassed his teachers at mental arithmetic, and received serious applause. At junior level, though, his ability had become irritating, rather more to the pedagogues than to his fellows. However, at his secondary school, a 'public' school to which he had been granted a scholarship, his contemporaries had been inclined to lift their noses at him, until the advantage became clear of having a 'mate' who could do quadratic equations in his head. He was responsible for a lot of 'chaps' homework, for the whole business of mathematics was so much a pleasure to him that it never occurred to him that he was being abused.

Consequently, he gained straight A*s in mathematics, pure and applied, physics, and sentential logic, a then-new though eventually-ephemeral member of the curriculum community, and was awarded another scholarship to read mathematics at Cambridge. So full was his head with the symbolic fragrance of numbers that he rarely remembered the name of his college which will, therefore, not be revealed. It is enough to say that he received first-class honours.

His professors, who had, in truth, learned more from him than they had taught to him, foresaw a life for him in The Realms of Academe. Eugene, however, didn't agree with them and, following an advertisement in The Financial Times newspaper, became articled to the firm of Adam, Hall, Upp & Co., Chartered Accountants of Gracechurch Street, London, E.C. Within two years, he had become qualified and, following the inability of Mr Adam, who was in his eighties and suffering from Old-Timers' Disease, the indecisiveness of Mr Hall who, though somewhat younger, couldn't make up his mind, and the general nastiness of Mr Upp, who had married Mr Adam's elderly, ugly daughter, decided to Set Out on his Own. He took a suite of rooms in Dothebooks Hall, Cheapskate - sorry, -side - London, equally E.C., and became Eugene Swift, M.A., (Cantab.), F.C.C.A., Chartered Accountant - 'I'll Do Your Books in Minutes' - interesting, because his surname was Hoolihan.

Before he set out on his Venture, however, his mother suggested he should have a Holiday, and that is how he came to The Island.

William was a different kettle of intellect, having been brought up to believe himself 'An Artiste'. He didn't do well at his O-levels, largely because of his pre-occupation with the aforesaid Lester, but got quite reasonable A-levels in English, History, Art and Spanish, so that he was able to gain a place to read English in one of the 'lesser' universities. It was immediately after his graduation, with a 2.1, that he met Eugene, but you already know about that. He and his 'enamorato' returned to England on the same flight, though went their separate ways at Gatwick.

William or, to be more precise, his mother, determined to have a career in The Theatre but, frankly, he wan't very good at it. His intellectual, not to say his mother's economic and apparent social status, found him jobs as assistant stage manager and general-purpose actor in several repertory companies in not so many months, but his overall ineptitude settled his eventual career in television. After all, when one can't really act, sing, dance, sew, construct scenery or mend a fuse but one is 'established' in 'The Business', what does one do? Easy! One becomes a tv executive.

Consequent to all of this, it will be some time before our Central Protagonists again coincide, and we shall occupy our space with events concerning others, and elsewhere.

When John and Yotta came home from the beach, Garbo wasn't there. John had tried to get her to come with them many times but, even when she had acceded, it was obvious she wasn't comfortable for, while Yotta clearly loved to gallop among the dunes, even occasionally venture into the sea with her master, Garbo was as reluctant to get out of the car as she had been to get into it, and sat, gloomy and desolate, her back to the water, looking up to The Mountain. Consequently, John had given up and, as he often, indeed, usually, did on a barmy October morning, had left her in her happy isolation and gone to swim and top-up his tan accompanied only by the tiny dog.

He examined the chain which had seemed to be Garbo's consolation. The clip that connected it to her collar remained, so it was clear that Someone had released her, though the old man couldn't think who it might have been. Her essentially antisocial nature told him that, whoever it was had an ability to make a relationship with the dog he had never achieved. Still, it concerned him that she might be wandering The Mountain, chasing chickens, worrying sheep, even though, given her freedom in the past, she had never shown signs of such behaviour. He went into the house and made a telephone call, then sat at the desk and said, audibly, 'Damn!'

Yotta looked up at him quizzically and he reached to scratch her head. 'No-one at home,' he said. 'I suppose we shall have to go and see if she's up there. Then we could go down to the shop and see if anyone there's seen her. If there is anyone there. However . . .' He paused to get up, and, even though the little dog had gone to sleep, continued, 'We shall have a drink first!'

The word 'ouzo' should not exist in the singular, indeed, in the old man's vocabulary, frankly, it didn't. He opened the computer - in Greece, one 'opens' and 'closes' electrical devices rather than switching them on and off - and pulled whatever it was he was currently absorbed with on to the screen. He scanned through the document, making odd amendments as he did, realised his glass was empty, and got up to get himself another drink. As he sat again, he took a cigarette, lit it and, having decided he knew where 'whatever-it-was-he-was-currently-absorbed-with' was going, began to tap at the keyboard and wield the mouse. Half an hour later, Yotta stirred and a voice from without called, 'Are you there?'

John swivelled his chair and called back, 'Of course. Come in,' then said to the little dog, 'You see? I knew we needn't have gone out.'

Two people entered, a fair-haired woman, frankly not young but, shall we say, very well preserved, and a smaller, dark man, perhaps a little younger though thinning on top. The woman sat on the bed and fished in her handbag. The man said, 'Where's Garbo?' then sat on the sofa.

'I don't know. When we came back from the beach, she'd gone. Someone let her off. I tried to ring you a little while ago. I thought she might have gone up to you.'

The woman said, 'Damn! I forgot to get fags. Can I cadge one?'

'Help yourself. Would you like a drink? There's ouzo and Scotch on the table and there's Coke and Sprite in the fridge.'

The man said, 'I'm all right. We just had coffee,' but the woman, who had got up to get a cigarette, poured herself an ouzo before she sat again and said, 'Get the Sprite from the fridge, Pet,' and he did.

'Pet' stood in the doorway and went on, 'Why does she always drink ouzo when we come down here?'

The old man smiled. 'Because it's there,' he said. 'Anyway, have you seen anything of Garbo?'

Petros, for that was the name of the small, dark man, said, 'No. We've been for a good walk, through the forest and down to the shop, then back here.

Jeanne, for that was the name of the fair-haired woman, said, 'No. No sign of her. Where d'you think she is?'

'I have no idea. I can only assume whoever let her off the chain was sympathetic and I can't say it breaks my heart to lose her. She's never been exactly companionable and, frankly, I've quite often wished I'd never taken her on. Still, what can you do?'

We shall not continue to give an account of the visit of Jeanne and Petros, for it was, though pleasant, pretty prosaic, except to say that it culminated with John inviting them to supper that evening, and them accepting the invitation. However, so you won't be disappointed, we will tell you that they feature further not much later in the story, when more about them will be revealed.

Note: We apologise for calling you 'Frankly' quite so often, and will do our best to avoid it in the future. Still, we make no guarantees.

John returned to the computer and 'whatever-it-was-he-was-currently-absorbed-with', a letter, the contents of which will now be revealed. Our editorial comments are to be italicised and in a different typeface. Isn't modern technology wonderful?

"October . . . , 200 . . .

Dear Eugene (and William),

It was lovely to hear from you at last - somewhat acidic because, after all, it was a long time since Eugene had been to The Island but this was his first letter - and of course you can come to see me and stay in the house. I shall, I'm pleased to say, be 'working' again - if you can call it that! You can use my car if you like, though, should you eschew elderly eastern-European motors, you can always hire one downstairs.

Like 'opening' and 'closing' the computer, 'downstairs' is Greek usage, and means 'in the village below, by the sea'. The old man had agonised about using the expression but had decided that Eugene would understand.

If you let me know, I can organise one for you, and if you don't want to stay up here in the Styx, I can find you an apartment downstairs. There are always plenty at the time you want to come, so confirm your dates by return if you can. The sooner I know exactly, the easier it is.

Yes, life is still pretty good here, though we had a very hard winter this year- much rain and unheard-of low temperatures. One morning last December, when I went to the car, there was ice on the windscreen, and there were even flurries of snow. Up North, it's been terrible, and there was snow over a meter deep in many places. 0Planes and ferries were often cancelled and the stock in supermarkets dwindled frighteningly. At one point, there was no dogfood for several days, and my animals had to eat pork or chicken! Anyway, the weather picked up in the Spring and the Summer was as hot as ever. Business in the taverna was surprisingly good, which is why I shall be working again next year. Now, the tourists have gone, but the weather is still pleasant, so I shall break off to take Yotta to the beach for the run, have a swim myself, and get a bit of sun.

Ten past two now, and we're back. I'm rather worried because Garbo's gone missing and I'm not sure what to do about it. It looks like someone let her off deliberately. I can't really understand why, because she was no trouble. I've tried to phone Petros, who actually owns the taverna and lives in the flat, but there was no reply, so I suppose Yotta and I will have to go to look for her, though I doubt we'll have much luck. As you may remember, she isn't very interested in either of us.

Half past four, and Petros and his partner Jeanne have been to see us. They've been for a long walk and seen no sign of Garbo so, I'm afraid, I shall give up. I can only conclude that whoever let her off the chain took her away. Perhaps the Norwegians I inherited her from have come back and decided they want her again. I suppose we shall see. Or not. Anyway, there's not much I can do about it.

I shall sign off now because Jeanne and Petros are coming to supper and I must get cooking. You'll like them. She's Belgian and doesn't speak much Greek, even though they've been together for years. He speaks no French at all, so their relationship is entirely in English!

Much love to you both. Let me know your final plans as soon as possible.

There followed some scribbled Greek - actually the words 'Much love to you both from Yanni'."

Here we are again, back to normal. No more clever tricks with the word-processor, at least for the time being.

John, as you have probably gathered, loved to cook, and there was no-one he loved to cook for more than Petros. Petros was always - yes, always - delighted with what the old man put before him, especially if it were something he hadn't had before. John had introduced him to 'real' curries, to strange foreign dishes such as kedgeree and cassoulet, and even got him to enjoy fakess soupa, a Greek lentil soup he had eschewed since childhood having had it ladled down his throat, especially during Lent when, it being essentially a vegetarian dish, it was, so to speak, de rigeur, Petros' mother being ostentatiously Religious. John's version was not vegetarian, however. Oh, no! He cooked the lentils in rich, fresh chicken-stock with carrot-slivers, chopped celery, secret herbs and wine. Delicious! But we digress.

That evening, the old man planned nothing apocalyptic. Petros had a favourite dish, and that was to be the heart of the meal. Fond though John was of Greek 'village' sausages, he recognised that tourists, obsessed as they were with English breakfast, wanted English sausages with it, so he made his own, albeit lightly perfumed with herbs. Petros loved them, especially when they were wrapped in bacon and roasted gently. Thus John planned to serve those aromatic, sensuous delicacies with roast potatoes, broccoli steamed with carrot-sticks and chopped tomato, and onion gravy, and he did.

While the meal was being cooked and consumed, Garbo was some distance away, comfortably chained close to a kennel, in her mind both sumptuous and unnecessary. She didn't know it, of course, but her function in her new home was to prove rather more sinister than was then apparent.