by Mandy Baggot
‘Which one?’ Petra asked, scurrying about. ‘There are at least three hundred pots.’
There weren’t, were there? She obviously was on watering duty like Hazel had suggested.
‘Shall I start picking them up and looking for the key?’ Petra asked, her hands either side of a very chunky-looking urn she surely had no chance of lifting. Or if she managed to get it up it was most likely going to drop down and break…
‘No!’ Becky said quickly. ‘It will be one of the ones by the door.’ She hoped so. She put both hands on the pot and rocked it back and forth until it did reveal a set of keys underneath. Bingo! She snatched them up and went to the lock. She was resolute she was going to be the first person over the threshold.
She put the key in the lock and turned. She could imagine it already. It was going to be all light linens and gauze curtains, sunshine streaming in and dappling cool tiled floors… Instead, the first thing that hit her when she opened the door was a foul stench. It was awful! It was sick-inducing. It was worse than bad eggs or bad prawns or a past its eat-by date egg and prawn panini. Becky coughed, almost choking. She put a hand over her nose and mouth and desperately tried not to inhale.
‘Fucking hell! What’s that stink?! Ugh! I’m gagging! I’m gagging! I’m going to puke!’ Petra yelled.
‘No, you’re not!’ Becky shouted back. Despite wanting to retreat back into the fragrant courtyard, she needed to find out what it was. Perhaps it was a blocked toilet or a leaking pipe. She took steps forward. There was wood flooring here, dark and distinguished, possibly reclaimed. The smell got worse as she moved past the door to the kitchen and into the main living area of the house. Natural stone walls, a few paintings, gaps on the wall where perhaps more paintings used to be, mirrors, a lot of mirrors…
Then she stopped dead in her tracks, hearing movement. There was someone in the house! Had Ms O’Neill’s warnings about people trying to get in not just been a case of being over cautious? Was there someone already in? Was she about to walk in on an attempted robbery? Maybe that’s why there were absent paintings. But a robbery didn’t explain the smell…
What did she do? What was the telephone number for the police here in Corfu? Why hadn’t Hazel or Shelley told her information like that?! That was much more vital intel than what someone who potentially carried a credit card reading device could look like.
‘Is there someone in here?’ Petra whispered really loudly. The noises coming from the next room stopped. There was no doubt whoever was in there had heard.
‘We should confront them,’ Petra said, slightly more quietly. ‘Look around for a weapon.’ She picked up an expensive-looking mantle clock. Petra couldn’t use that. It was probably an heirloom. The very last thing Becky wanted to do was break an antique in her first few minutes at housesitting.
‘I’m going in,’ Becky announced. ‘Put that clock down.’
Scared to death, but knowing she had to be the one in charge of the situation, Becky marched around the corner ready to give the intruder a piece of her mind, or her fists if needs be. But the sight that greeted her had her gasping in shock. She let out a scream and the cawing, growling and spitting of a menagerie of animals came back at her.
‘Becks! Are you OK… what the… holy shit! It’s a zoo.’ Petra was next to her now and, getting over the initial shock at animals being inside the property, Becky now started to take in exactly what they were.
‘Three cats,’ she counted, her voice shaking. ‘Are there three?’
‘Definitely three,’ Petra concurred.
‘And an owl.’ Becky screwed up her face. ‘Why haven’t the cats eaten the owl?’ And didn’t owls only come out at night?
‘I don’t know what that brown and white bear thing is, but I don’t like the way it’s looking at us,’ Petra said.
Becky then took in the carnage surrounding the animals. There were faeces all over the floor. The cats were licking themselves and each other on a whiter than white sofa that had tinges of absolutely not white all over it. The owl was spinning its head looking like it wanted to take flight and the evil bear thing was growling as if it would take great delight in murdering all of them!
Becky’s eyes went from the animals to the mess and back again, unable to compute any of it. And then she noticed the bi-fold doors, slightly open, paw marks distinctive in the bright sunlight. An azure sky was visible and the greenery of trees. She longed to forget this carnage ahead of her and seek the pool and those promised views…
‘Why are there pink feathers everywhere?’
Petra interrupted Becky’s thoughts of relaxation. And then there was shouting in Greek. Perhaps an intruder after all…
‘Oh! Kakos! Kakos! Skata! Skata pantou!’
Petra had put her hands up like she was about to attempt a karate move and in bustled a Greek woman who could have been anything between the ages of forty-five and sixty-five. She was of medium height, wearing a grey A-line dress, but with the widest bush of black curly hair on top of her head. Should Becky attempt a few words of Greek? Except ‘please’, ‘thank you’ and ‘of course’ probably wasn’t going to get her very far in this scenario.
‘Fyge! Fyge makria mou!’ the woman said.
Suddenly the woman clapped loudly, like thunder banging clouds together, then opened her arms like she had the wingspan of a condor and began flapping as if she was preparing for lift-off. The cats immediately scattered, squeezing out of the gap in the doors and next the owl began to fly around the room making a terrible racket. Becky ducked, Petra screamed and the evil bear-thing bared its teeth at the Greek lady.
‘Exo! Exo tora!’ she ordered, getting closer to it. Becky watched through one eye as the owl swooped over her head. She had to admit she didn’t know who she was more afraid of. The bear or the woman. And Becky really should be doing something… Taking a deep breath she made steps across the room towards the bi-fold doors and pulled them open wider. This seemed to please both owl and bear-thing and the bird flew through the opening, the bear-thing scuttering out after it.
And then there were three women left in the living room, the awful smell still lingering, the droppings and mess still all over the floor like it was an enclosure at an animal sanctuary. Becky didn’t know what to say but someone had to say something. The Greek woman seemed to be sizing them up, looking them up and down and down and up, a grim expression on her face.
‘I only know Greek swear words,’ Petra whispered, standing close to Becky. ‘This one place, in Thessaloniki, it was full of sailors and…’
‘You are the English girl. Come to look after the house.’ The Greek woman had spoken and she had a deep commanding voice that said that Becky definitely wasn’t the one in charge here.
‘Yes, we are,’ Petra answered. ‘And obviously someone has left the door open and let animals in here.’
The Greek woman raised an eyebrow and her abundance of hair seemed to move too. ‘Ms O’Neill told me one girl. One. Which one is the one?’
Becky cleared her throat. ‘That’s me. I’m Becky.’ She put out her hand in an attempt to smooth relations. The woman made no move to shake it or suggest she was going to offer the obligatory two kisses they had started to become accustomed to in this country. This wasn’t a good start. The woman was looking very stony-faced now and Becky wondered if she was going to say anything else or whether it would be up to Becky to try and speak again…
‘I am Eleni. My business has been waiting for you to finally arrive.’ She turned her attention from Becky to Petra. ‘I lock all the doors yesterday and I do not like to be made of accusations.’
‘Oh… no, Petra wasn’t… isn’t…’ Becky started. Where were her newly learnt Greek words now, when she needed them most? What was it the taxi driver had said…? She had it. She looked as remorseful as she could then said: ‘Fisika.’
The woman immediately brightened, the scornful look lightening considerably, her stance less warrior. ‘You know Greek?’
&nbs
p; ‘A very small amount,’ Becky answered with a hopeful smile.
‘I know all the…’ Petra began.
Before her companion could get the sentence out Becky stood on Petra’s toe making her yelp.
‘Petra, why don’t you go and have a look upstairs?’ She lowered her voice to a whisper she hoped only Petra could hear. ‘I’ll let you have first choice of bedroom if you go away now.’
Petra didn’t need to be asked twice. She was picking up her backpack in youthful excitement and bounding towards the gorgeous natural stone staircase neither of them had had a chance to marvel at when faced with a clutch of wildlife…
Becky smiled at the Greek woman who had finally taken her hands off her hips. ‘Ms O’Neill didn’t say there would be someone to greet me. It’s lovely to meet you.’
‘Ms O’Neill said one person,’ Eleni said. She stubbed her foot at some of the droppings and the smell in the room seemed to ripen. ‘Ena.’
‘I know,’ Becky replied quickly. ‘Petra, isn’t staying very long.’
‘How long?’
‘She isn’t staying here at all. I mean, when I said “staying”, I really meant she’s only here to see that I am… settled in.’
‘Settled in?’ Eleni asked. She came a little closer to Becky, droppings on the toe of her shoes now and then she sniffed as if she had lie-detector nasal skills.
‘Oh, you know, making sure I’ve… found the local supermarket and that… I know how to lock all the doors. Maybe a couple of nights.’
‘The local supermarket,’ Eleni repeated. ‘Ochi.’
Becky knew what ochi meant. It meant ‘no’. Was this woman going to run her out of the local village. Where even was this local village? They seemed to be pretty much in the middle of nowhere here. And she hadn’t noticed the promised car for her use outside of the property. If she wasn’t allowed to shop locally how was she going to get to a shop she was permitted to go in? All these scenarios and more were dropping down into her mind like… droppings from the bottom of a bear-thing.
‘You will shop in my cafeneon,’ the woman told her. It was definitely an order and not a request. ‘I have everything you need. It is a short walk down the hill, to the left from the gate.’
‘OK,’ Becky replied, actually too scared to say anything else.
‘And you will clean this mess. There are products in the kitchen. And if you run out…’ Eleni began, seemingly heading for the hallway and the door out.
‘You have some at your shop?’ Becky asked, feeling the need to follow in the woman’s footsteps.
‘Cafeneon,’ she corrected, looking over her shoulder. ‘It has supplies and a bar and a post office. For local people.’
Becky swallowed. Was she meant to use the facility or not? Now she wasn’t quite sure.
‘But we do not turn down the money from foreigners.’ She grinned then and continued down the hallway.
‘Becky!’ Petra yelled from upstairs. It sounded slightly manic and Becky’s heart skipped a beat as the Greek woman stopped her retreat and they both looked up. ‘I know why there are pink feathers down there! There’s a fucking flamingo standing in the bath!’
Twenty-Eight
Liakada Village
Elias was sweating and it had nothing to do with the heat of the day. Being back here, on the outskirts of his home village, was the only thing creating the perspiration. And why he had decided to park the car here and walk the rest of the way he wasn’t really sure. Perhaps a part of him was still not completely committed to the idea of being back. Maybe quietly arriving on foot was going to be easier than driving in, parking at his parents’ place and having the neighbours peeking out from behind their shutters to see who the unrecognised vehicle belonged to. That was what had always happened. Tourists having taken a wrong turn because of their sat-nav could be literally terrified by the looks from the locals as they tried to find a space to turn around and leave…
Liakada was a typical Greek village full of tiny little houses all quirky in their own way. Varying degrees of pastels, some painted smartly, others with parts peeling off, small dogs yapping in the courtyards, half a broken tractor on a scrub of land (this one belonged to Makis and hadn’t been moved since before he was born, his mother had told him), flowering vines, lemon trees and bushes bearing figs and kumquats, empty giant cans of feta cheese now used to collect rain water… It was so at odds with the life he had made for himself in London.
‘Elia!’
He froze, standing completely still. The voice was coming from above him and he didn’t know whether to run away or look.
‘Elia Mardas!’ His name was shouted even louder and unless he wanted the whole village opening their doors and joining in, he needed to respond.
Turning, he looked up onto a balcony above, a washing line spanning the length of its concrete overhang. He waved a hand. It was Areti. One of his mother’s closest friends. It wasn’t her house. He couldn’t have expected to run into her here.
‘Yassas, Areti,’ he responded with a small smile. ‘Kalispera.’
‘It is you!’ she clapped her hands together, pushing apart the sheets she was hanging and sticking her whole body out, standing up against the railings. ‘Oh, look at you. You have lost weight. You are too thin. I will need to make you much of my moussaka. How long you stay? You move back? Your case is very small.’
So many questions. Already. He should have remembered talking to the people in his village was always like getting an inquisition from a government agency.
‘I am here for work,’ Elias answered. That told Areti nothing much… and he knew exactly how much moussaka she intended to give him! It would be enough to feed the whole village, if not the whole of Greece.
Areti whisked away another sheet, as if all the linen was getting in her way from seeing him properly. ‘How long you stay? My cousin has a house for sale. No parking but…’
‘I do not want a house.’
He had said that rather abruptly and immediately regretted it. It was because he remembered the house he had lived in with Hestia. It was his grandmother’s old home that had needed complete renovation. He had stripped the wood, taking it back to its original state, hours spent on his hands and knees getting calluses and splinters, then sealing the restored natural pine. Hestia had decorated, made it a home, until it wasn’t anymore. Now it was lying empty because, for the time being, he didn’t have the heart to sell it out of the family. It didn’t make any commercial sense to hold on to it but, for the moment, what could he do? His failed marriage had already broken his mother’s heart…
‘I am sorry, Areti. I have had a long flight. But it is very good to see you. Are my parents at home right now?’ He checked his watch again. Usually they would be there, in the shop, preparing bags of bread or making coffee…
‘I… well… I should get this washing finished. It maybe rain later.’ Areti began bustling about on the balcony. It was almost like she now wanted to be hidden by the sheets.
‘It is July,’ Elias reminded her. ‘It never rains in Liakada in July.’ There was no response. ‘Areti!’ he called. Areti was the gossip of the village. There was nothing she liked more than to talk. Something was definitely wrong here, and unlike his previous decision to quietly slip into Liakada, he quickened his pace.
*
‘Elia Mardas!’
‘Yassou, Elia!’
‘Elia, ti kanis?’
Elias waved a hand or had a brief passing of the time with the people of Liakada who all seemed to appear from pathways or allotments or from behind shutters greeting his every step, but he did not stop moving. He held his resolve, kept the smile on his face like he had not a care in the world. The fragrant scent of jasmine and wild lilies filled his nose, but he bit back the memories until he arrived in the centre of the village, the hub of Liakada, the small plaka stone covered square with the gnarly ancient olive tree providing shade. There was one restaurant, Panos’s Taverna, its inside dark against the brig
ht sunlight of the day, its tables outside underneath a canopy of lush green vines, white cloths floating on the slight breeze, two couples who had likely hiked down from the hills enjoying a meal and drinks. And then there was his parents’ place. It was like time had stood still. The yellow sign indicating it was a place to collect and send post, his mother’s long oblong planters around the windows blooming light pink and white. There was the usual clutch of locals drinking outside, their glasses full of ouzo, their plates holding a meze of black olives, feta cheese and dolmades (stuffed vine leaves). The door was open and Elias’s gaze went to the dark, smoky cross burned into the lintel above the threshold. A tradition from Easter to bring luck to houses for the coming year. Life here was exactly the same… or was it?
He removed his sunglasses and looked a little closer at the patrons drinking ouzo and playing backgammon. One of them was very familiar. One of them should not be drinking ouzo when he was supposed to be in charge of the business.
‘Papa,’ he called, pulling his suitcase to a halt and stopping outside the steps to the terrace.
The grey-haired man turned his head towards him and Elias could clearly see there were far more lines etched into his father’s face than he remembered. His father’s eyes were glazed and he seemed to have to concentrate hard to focus. Perhaps he needed glasses? It would be just like him to stubbornly deny the aging process.
‘Spiros, it is Elia.’ It was his father’s friend, Petros, acting like some sort of visual aid for the blind. Maybe his eyesight really was failing…
The instant his name hit the air there was an audible intake of breath from the other customers. Elias took the steps noisily, clattering his case, uncaring about the disturbance. Something was not the same with his father and he needed to prioritise that before he dealt with the curious looks and whisperings. He had always known he was going to be the centrepiece of village gossip whenever he showed up. Time may have gone by, but the villagers didn’t ever forget a good scandal. And his separation had given them one of the very best.
