The Secret Cove in Croatia

Zita translated again. ‘She says, “But you live on an island”.’ They all laughed at that.

Vesna beckoned Maddie over as she grabbed a large plastic bottle and poured a generous glug of dark green liquid into a large frying pan.

‘Is that olive oil?’ asked Maddie, looking up at a shelf of assorted plastic bottles in varying sizes, all containing the same liquid.

‘Yes.’ Zita handed her the bottle. ‘Smell.’

The distinctive fruity smell of olives hit her. ‘Wow, that smells good. Fresh. Like … well, like real olives. You can almost imagine them being crushed.’

‘Picked last October.’ Zita tilted her head with a definite hint of pride. ‘Here every family has their own piece of land with olive trees. We have a plot on Brač, up in the hills. In the autumn the whole family goes to the island for the week – everyone helps. And then the oil is pressed at a local co-operative. You must take a bottle back to the boat.’

‘Thank you, that would be great,’ said Maddie, thinking she’d save it to make a really good salad dressing.

‘And you must have a glass of wine.’ Zita pointed to a row of outsize glass jars tucked behind the archway.

‘Wow,’ said Maddie, eyeing the big jars of deep blackberry-coloured wine with their traditional wicker weave which looked fabulously rustic. ‘What do you call those? And is the wine homemade as well?’

‘In English you’d call them demijohns.’ Zita laughed and shook her head. ‘And yes, the wine is homemade but not by us, but there is a family connection of Ivan’s – his cousin makes the wine.’

‘Here, try.’ Ivan thrust a thick glass goblet of the wine into her hand, having poured several from a jug on the side.

‘I don’t know much about wine,’ said Maddie, gingerly tasting it.

‘All you need to know is if you like it,’ said Ivan, lifting his glass. ‘Živilli.’

‘Živilli,’ said Zita.

‘Mmm, that’s good,’ said Maddie.

Zita took a sip from her own glass. ‘Dalmatian red wines are very good. We have many. The white is different and will often be served with water in the restaurants. The tourists get cross because they don’t like it to be watered down. The red, I think, is the best.’ She shrugged. ‘Ivan and I, we prefer the red. You must take some wine back with you as well.’

Maddie was handed an apron and ushered over to the oven, where Tonka had begun to fry several pieces of different fish. Her impromptu cookery lesson featured lots of sign language and laughter as Tonka and Vesna attempted to teach her how to cook the dish. After that, to Maddie’s surprise, they showed her how to make fresh pasta.

‘I thought pasta was Italian,’ she said to Zita.

‘We’re very close to Italy and our history is very intertwined. The Venetians ruled here for over three hundred years. We do eat lots of pasta although, when it is a main dish, it is made with meat and shellfish, not fish. We do add what we call rezanci, vermicelli in Italian, to some of the fish stews and my mother has her own special ingredient, which I know –’ Zita’s eyes twinkled with amusement ‘–she’ll want to show you.’

Tonka was certainly an enthusiastic teacher, patting Maddie hard on the shoulder at regular intervals, while Vesna stood by and nodded approvingly.

‘Mmm, that tastes amazing,’ said Maddie when Tonka offered her a spoonful of brujet. The simplicity of the dish in terms of ingredients was belied by the fragrant, fresh flavours. ‘I’m not sure mine will be this good,’ she said, pulling faces and pointing to herself, to the amusement of Tonka, who patted her on the shoulder again and nodded in reassurance, while pointing to the fish and the herbs on the side.

‘Mama says if you use good fresh fish from the market and lots of seasoning, you can’t go wrong,’ translated Zita.

Maddie smiled her thanks towards the older woman. ‘That’s what she thinks. But at least I know what fish to buy now.’ Thanks to Zita, she had a page of copious notes and a list of fish to ask for at the market, as well as several recipes that Tonka had dictated, waving her wooden spoon at Zita, who’d painstakingly translated them all under Vesna’s watchful eye. It was a real team effort.

Shaking her poor cramped hand, Zita looked up. ‘Mama wants to show you her finishing touch. You’re very honoured. Some of these recipes are closely guarded secrets and this one she’s never given to me before.’

‘Come, come,’ said Vesna, pointing to the table as she started to ladle out the fish broth into wide soup bowls.

Maddie sat between Tonka and Zita and listened to the flow of Croatian around her, with Zita’s occasional translations to keep her involved.

‘Mama is talking about her neighbour, who she met in the market; she has trouble with her son. He started work on the top floor of his mother’s house to turn it into an apartment for him and his wife, but he has stopped halfway through the work and there is water running down the walls.’

Tonka was shaking her head and said something else, with a dramatic roll of her eyes. Zita giggled. ‘Apparently he’s a plumber.’

‘Oops,’ said Maddie. ‘I can see why he’s not very popular.’

Zita translated and Tonka let out a delighted laugh.

‘It’s very common in Croatia for families to have big houses and the next generation moves into the top floor,’ explained Zita.

‘God, I’m glad that doesn’t happen at home,’ said Maddie with a slight shudder.

Despite the language barrier, Maddie couldn’t remember an evening where she’d been made to feel so welcome. Without being unkind, she could have guaranteed that not one of her family would have been willing to try the fish or if they had they’d have stared at it with deep suspicion because fish came in batter with mushy peas and chips from the chippy.

‘Is good, yes?’ asked Vesna.

Maddie nodded. ‘Very.’ She patted her tummy in a Winnie-the-Pooh sort of motion that had everyone beaming. ‘If anything I make turns out this good, I’ll be very happy. Perhaps if I get stuck, Ivan can give me some help.’

Zita sniggered, translated for her mother and Ivan’s grandmother and there was a very pregnant pause before all three women burst into uproarious laughter.

‘That would be a no, then,’ said Maddie, joining in the laughter as Ivan shook his head.

‘I’m the captain of the boat.’ He winked at her. ‘I don’t do the cooking.’

Chapter 4 (#ulink_0bf42ea9-6f9f-5221-89fe-56b1899db41d)

This was heaven. The whole boat to herself and the pick of the sun loungers. Maddie sipped at her gin and tonic, stretching out, enjoying the feel of the sun on her skin. She’d earned these few precious hours of sunbathing. The crew manual had been absolutely invaluable, as had her visit to Ivan’s house. She smiled at the thought of last night. She’d got it all sorted. Menu plans. Shopping lists. And, thanks to Zita, a complete selection of recommended markets and shops in all the different ports they were likely to visit. And first up, as soon as she got to a fish market, she would be making a fish broth.

Despite the delicious glasses of Ivan’s family’s red wine, which had slipped down rather well last night, she’d set her alarm for six and by eight-thirty this morning she’d checked all the cabins were clean, made sure every bathroom had fresh towels and planned today’s and tomorrow’s evening meal and lunch as well as early evening canapés, shorthand for olives, fresh anchovies and a plate of meat and cheese for the guests’ arrival at five-thirty.

As she reached for her drink, tilting her book up against the sun to shade her face, she became aware of voices and the rumbling rhythmic thud of suitcases being pulled over the wooden planks of the jetty. Ignoring them, she turned another page of her book and sipped at her gin and tonic.

She’d read several more pages of her book and was starting to consider setting the alarm on her phone to have a little snooze when someone called out, ‘Ahoy there, Avanturista. Anyone home?’

She froze, huddling rigid, back into her seat. Surely it couldn’t be guests. Ivan had been quite specific. No one checks in before five-thirty. Looking anxiously from side to side, she worked out that no one could see her from the quayside.

‘Hello, is anyone there?’ called a second, female, voice.

Maddie sat tight. It was only three-thirty. It wasn’t as if it was ten to five or anything. No one was supposed to be here and even if they’d made their way here by accident, this was far too early.

Unfortunately, it was impossible to relax now. Feeling resentful, she pressed herself back into the sun lounger, not even daring to use the straw in case she made an inadvertent noise. She listened, praying they might decide to turn around, but there was absolutely no sign of them shifting. Curiosity was also killing her. Who were the guests? She’d been wondering all day what they’d be like. There were no clues from the manifest as to whether the people were couples, family or a group of friends. Did she dare peep over the top and have a look? But she couldn’t because what if they saw her? Then she’d have to explain that they weren’t allowed on board and … well, she didn’t think she’d be able to hold her own against posh people who were paying her wages.

Basically, she was stuck on the deck in a new bikini she’d bought on a whim and would never have worn in public. With big bones, Maddie was never going to be a size ten; she was a healthy twelve to fourteen and her stomach had never, and was never going to be, flat and, yes, she had muffin tops – double chocolate chip muffin tops. All bought and paid for.

Now she knew they were there it was impossible to concentrate on her book. She hardly dared breathe as she listened to the two people talking. She couldn’t make out the words but one of them was getting quite irate and the other frustrated. Darn it and now she really wanted to pee. The more she tried not to think about it, the more she wanted to go. It was psychosomatic; she didn’t need to go. Her bladder disagreed. Oh, why, oh, why hadn’t she brought out her T-shirt to cover herself up? That would teach her for being so cocky at having sole run of the yacht.

Could she slide onto the floor and commando crawl her way across the deck to get to the stairs? The Mission Impossible tune unhelpfully played in her head. But then she’d have to slide down each step head first on her stomach. It was no good; she had to go to the loo. Gingerly, she lowered herself onto the wooden deck and, like a caterpillar, inched her way towards the stairs. How would Tom Cruise manage this? She regretted her initial decision to manoeuvre down the stairs on her stomach. Now she’d started, there wasn’t enough room for her to stand back up again.