Turkey Street, Jack and Liam move to Bodrum

Chapter Three - Home Alone

'Eat, eat!' insisted Beril, pointing at a dish of spinach and eggs. 'Eat!'

My fiery courtyard companion was determined to keep my pecker up. With Liam a continent away and Vadim buying more bongos in Ankara, she doubled my rations. The offerings were left on our patio table, freshly cooked, spooned into earthenware bowls and artfully decorated with dill, parsley or chives. It was like meals on wheels for the lost and lonely and it became a daily donation. As promised, Liam called every day, assuring me that all would be well even though neither of us thought it would be. He nagged me to steer clear of Marketman's corked wine ('It'll give you gut rot'), take regular walks by the Aegean ('Sea air wards off dementia, I read it in Marie Claire'), and keep away from the boys at the pazar ('You'll only pick up a nasty discharge'). He also reminded me to switch the hot water supply. With winter lurking on the horizon and the first fat rains already upon us, it was time to shut off the solar panels and fire up the winter boiler.

When it came to the biannual flat roof shuffle, Liam had unilaterally decided that my nimble limbs were better suited for buildering up the side of the house without the aid of a safety rope.

'Look, Jack,' he had said, 'just climb onto the kitchen roof, shimmy under the canopy of the olive tree, leap across to Beril and Vadim's house and the stopcock's right there under your nose. It's not difficult. You know how to shimmy, don't you?'

When I asked Hanife about the hot water arrangement, she shrugged her shoulders and presented me with a crock of her tripe soup by way of compensation. Somehow, it didn't feel like a fair exchange for risking a broken neck. The unconventional set-up was one of life's great mysteries, like trigonometry, the Immaculate Conception and Donald Trump's comb over.

I retrieved the rotting ladder from the corner of the garden - a death trap held together by rusting nails - and dragged it across to the house. Beril dashed out to help with the climb, her screeches of encouragement only serving to scare off Bianca, her demented kitten, a ball of white fur riddled with neuroses and imaginary fleas. As my backside edged over the parapet, an olive branch snagged the waistband of my sweatpants and tugged them down to reveal the velvety cleavage of my milky white buttocks. I rolled my eyes, instantly regretting my decision to go commando. Beril gasped and shielded her eyes as I moondanced free from the offending branch. Eventually, it lashed back, horsewhipping my behind and cluster-bombing adolescent olives over me, the roof and the entire courtyard. Beril regained her composure with alarming speed, gathering up handfuls of olives and cackling wildly as she hurled them back at me.

'Yes, Beril,' I yelled down. 'Funny. Very funny.'

By the time I was back on terra firma and struggling to recover what was left of my dignity, Beril had prepared my reward: boiling hot şekerli kahve and a side order of mini Turkish delights. I had never quite developed a taste for sweet and gritty Turkish coffee, but it would have been churlish to refuse and besides, Beril was sitting opposite watching every teeth-rotting sip.

'So?' I said. 'What's with the look?'

'So?' she replied, mimicking me but doing her best not to smirk. 'Is good?'

I popped a Turkish delight in my mouth. 'Yes. Is very good. Thank you, Beril.'

'No problem. Ark-a-daş-lar,' she said slowly, offering her hand across the table. 'Friends. Yes?'

'Yes,' I answered, cupping her hand, suddenly touched by her warmth, not to mention her improving English. 'Friends. Has a nice ring to it.'

She took out a small package wrapped in an old cover of Turkish Hello from a bag by her side.