Helen Wyatt — The Convent at Argos

Sevasti, I remember our squabbling back in Kalymnos with strong affection and longing. I conjure those moments in the room at the convent where I knew I was right. Your place was to carry, serve, bear and endure and I know Mr Charmian and you were a fighting gang - quick witted at out-manoeuvring me - her with a lashing tongue and her with those smug and knowing eyes. I think Mr Charmian was on my side but I pitied his humiliation in my gaze.

 Now I’m not so sure. 10 years on, I see those moments as lost life. I imagine you choosing that convent life as a lost life too. Have you just climbed the mountain and slept with the nuns to share your loneliness, or have you wrapped your head and body in black, embroidered objects of beauty displayed in darkened room, and clasped skulls to your chest?

Fine embroidery in the Convent at Argos.

 I’ve learnt something in Australia. Men drink beer, throw up and go home after the 6 o’clock swill; women cook sad wet grey meals and are trapped behind doors and windows separated by fences on silent streets. I know, I’ve built them. No festivals, no dancing; no cooking and eating together and no battles in a convent. 

 I can’t bear it. I’ll return in my smart clothes, a wealthy man, but I’ll strip them off, run into the sea at Pothia as a child again and then …I’ll find you Sevasti and we will talk.