Apollo's Seed

‘No! That is——’ Martha gazed appealing at Aristotle Myconos, but he could not—or would not—help her. Dion was already moving towards the house, preparatory to summoning the car, when she realised she would have to use Sarah after all. ‘I can’t return to Rhodes, because Sarah needs me.’

She saw her husband’s expression change as she brought her sister’s name into it. Dion had never liked Sarah, and in all honesty, Sarah had not encouraged him to do so. In the beginning, Martha had found her sister’s attitude towards her husband rather irritating, but as their relationship foundered she began to see that Sarah had been right all along.

She and Sarah had been very close in those days before her marriage. Their parents had been quite old before they started their family, and after their father’s death twelve years ago, their mother had found it difficult to carry on. Consequently, when Martha was sixteen and Sarah was eighteen, they found themselves orphaned, and more dependent on each other than ever.

Nevertheless they were good friends, and once Martha had completed her secretarial training and got a job as a doctor’s receptionist, they had found no difficulty in keeping up the small house in Wimbledon, where they had lived all their lives. Until that holiday in Rhodes, which had altered everything …

Now, Dion removed his cigar from his mouth and said flatly: ‘I see. I should have known your sister would be involved in some way. Very well. Why does she need you? Because she is afraid of your becoming involved with this family again?’

‘Dion!’ Alex’s urgent voice interrupted them, and turning, Martha saw her husband’s brother beckoning from the open doorway. ‘Dion, Giorgios is on the telephone. He wishes to speak to you personally.’

The oath Dion uttered made Martha flinch, and she watched apprehensively as he flung down his cigar and ground it under his heel. Then, with a frustrated gesture, he strode across the patio, and disappeared into the house.

However, when Alex would have followed his brother, his father’s voice arrested him. ‘Martha is leaving,’ Aristotle said, the firmness of his tone belied by the unsteady movement of the hands he extended towards her. ‘That is what you wish to do, is it not?’ he adjured, waiting expectantly for her reply, and dry-mouthed she nodded. ‘Kalos! You will drive her to the helicopter, Alexander.’

‘But—my handbag——’

Martha’s words were faltering, her head curiously light at this unexpected reversal of the situation, and for a moment Aristotle’s impatience showed. Then, gesturing towards Alex, he bade him collect her belongings from his study, while he escorted his daughter-in-law to the car.