by Mandy Baggot
‘Papa,’ Elias said, standing right at the table, looking at his father now, ignoring the gazes from Petros, Dimitri and Spiros Beach. There were so many Spiros’s on the island – some also with the same last name – you sometimes needed to distinguish them by the job they did. Spiros Beach worked renting sun loungers. His father was Spiros Post.
‘What are you doing here?’ his father asked. Now his father was looking directly at him and it wasn’t quite the expression he had hoped to see. There was something like hostility there. Not even a flicker of I’m-pleased-to-see-you.
‘He said “what are you doing here”,’ Petros said, looking up at Elias like he needed the translation.
‘I am not deaf,’ Elias retorted. Then he addressed Petros. ‘What is wrong with him?’
‘Well,’ Petros began. ‘It is almost time for siesta…’
‘That is not an answer.’ He looked to his father again. ‘Why are you not in the shop? Why are you eating and drinking with your friends?’
‘Why are you here?’ his father asked again. ‘You tell me there is nothing for you here.’
Elias bit the inside of his cheek. There was no doubt his father was halfway to drunk, if not completely there already. But sometimes when you were intoxicated your real feelings escaped from that tight lid that was usually fitted to your heart when sober. He could vouch for that.
There was more whispering from the drinkers at the other tables, even one of the stray dogs – this one black and white and missing an ear – had quietened its yapping and was gazing intently at Elias, its head through the metal railings.
He took a deep breath dampening down the desire to snap back at his father. Now was not the time – he had just set foot in Liakada after an exhausting few days – and here in public was definitely not the place. ‘Where is my mother?’
‘Pfft!’ his father spat. He picked up his ouzo glass and drank back the whole contents in one go. ‘Why do you ask me?’
Why was his father being so infuriating? OK, so Elias hadn’t expected to be hugged and kissed like he was returning alive from a long drawn-out, bloody war, but he had expected to be able to hold a civil conversation.
‘Elia…’ Petros began, taking a rolled-up cigarette from behind his ear and putting it between his lips.
‘Do not answer for him!’ Elias was raising his voice now. Something he didn’t want to do. It showed a lack of control. And he was all about control now. He lightened his tone a notch. ‘Is my mother inside?’
‘How do I know?’ Spiros retorted like a child. ‘Why should I care?’ He took hold of another glass of ouzo and downed that drink too.
Now Elias really was at a loss to know what was going on. His parents had always lived in each other’s pockets. One would not be able to sneeze at the other end of the village without the other one knowing about it instantaneously.
‘You are not making any sense,’ Elias told his father. ‘You have drunk too much.’
‘Oh, you think I have drunk too much.’ Spiros picked up a third glass and waved it under his nose as if breathing in the aroma like it was a fine wine he was trying to distinguish. ‘I only just begin.’ He downed the third glass and there was another audible inhale from the villagers who seemed to have increased in number. There was also another dog – cream-coloured with ringlets of fluffy fur – staring at Elias as if waiting for his reaction. And the truth was, he didn’t know how to react. He looked at his father anew. His shirt was badly creased. There was a stain on the fabric of his trousers. His hair wasn’t greased into place like usual. His father was always well-turned out. His mother always made sure of that…
‘Petros,’ Elias said. ‘Where is my mother?’ Perhaps the only logic he was going to get would come from his father’s friend after all.
‘She is checking on one of the villas she cleans,’ Petros answered.
His mother cleaned villas now? Before, she would always be busy with the shop and café. Had business taken a downturn? Was this why his father had turned to drink?
‘She will be with Leandros.’ This came from his father as he leaned over and snatched another ouzo from in front of his friend, Babis. ‘Or Constantine. Or perhaps,’ he continued, proffering his glass to emphasise his point, ‘perhaps she will be like your wife and start to fall in love with women. Maybe she is in the arms of Areti.’
The crowd didn’t even try to contain their sighs and gasps and there was even a hand clap and a little laughter. Elias’s temper was rising fast and he wanted to grab hold of his father, pull him from the chair, drag him inside the building and shut away the nosy residents in order to get to the root of his behaviour.
‘Enough!’ Elias roared. He had directed the word at his father, but he had made his voice loud enough so that everyone could hear. He was not about to be made a laughing stock here for a second time. ‘Tell me, what is going on?’
It was at that moment his father crumpled. Gone was the ouzo-shotting bravado and in its place was a man falling apart, tears slipping from his eyes, shoulders rolling forward and shaking with emotion. Spiros opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but the words didn’t appear to be able to come out.
‘Your father does not live here anymore,’ Petros spoke up. ‘Your mother threw him out six months ago.’
And now it was Elias who needed the ouzo.
Twenty-Nine
Villa Selino, Kerasia
Becky dipped her head back into the cool, refreshing water of the most relaxing, tranquil pool she had ever had the pleasure of swimming in. To be fair, the only pool she had really spent any time in was at the local leisure centre. And her fear of seeing a damp, used plaster on the floor was always at the back of her mind when she used that facility, so not fully as relaxing as it might be. Megan had been the real swimming enthusiast. Her sister had read that it was the best form of exercise for an all-over workout and as most of Megan’s friends didn’t seem to like getting their hair wet, it had been Becky who had accompanied her. It had been fun. They’d done lengths, occasionally they’d turned up on an inflatable session and braved the enormous floatie taking up most of the pool and they’d chatted about the latest drama in the life of Henry the Bachelor who lived next door to the family home. That was pre-It’s A Wrap when Becky worked at the bank and Megan was toying with the idea of a business course at college. It was before their dad had died. Before either of them knew how much life was going to change…
But here was a world away from everything in Wiltshire. Here it was like she had slipped into someone else’s life for a second. Someone else who was rich and powerful and had other people to butter their bread for them…
Suddenly there was water in her eyes and mouth and she was struggling to maintain her head above the surface. Spluttering, and grabbing onto the wall of the pool, Becky saw that Petra had jumped in, creating the kind of wake a powerboat would have been proud of. It seemed that half-drowning in a cave-lake hadn’t put her off water.
‘This is worth all the scrubbing, isn’t it?’ Petra remarked, arriving at Becky’s side, hair still beautifully in place.
‘Have you finished?’ Becky asked. She had made Petra shoo out the flamingo – goodness knew where it was going to end up, but a quick Google search had told her that flamingos did hang out in Corfu, but usually on the lake at the south of the island and not up here in the north. But no amount of internet searching could tell Becky exactly how far flamingos could walk, or fly. Then, once the villa was free of animals – as far as they could see without opening every cupboard door or wardrobe – they had started a clean-up with every product the large modern kitchen possessed. There was even a literal miracle product called Koh that Becky was going to look into buying when she got back to It’s A Wrap. But, after an hour of scrubbing until her fingers were numb, Petra insisted Becky leave her to finish things while she got in the pool. And Becky hadn’t argued. The pool was what she had been looking forward to the most and it was even better than she could have
imagined.
‘All finished,’ Petra said, putting her arms on the stone surround and lying her head on one of them. ‘Shit scrubbed, sanitised and now spotless.’
‘Are you sure?’ Becky asked. ‘Because this place seems to be very high-end. I don’t want any kind of leakage ruining wood imported from Africa or something.’
‘The grumpy Greek woman didn’t mention expensive imports,’ Petra said with a sniff. ‘And if that flooring was imported from Tanzania or somewhere, I’ll… eat my plaits.’
Becky took a breath and leaned a little like Petra was leaning. It wasn’t just the water trickling over her shoulders that was incredible, it was the view too. You could see the sea from the pool and not just the smallest of glimpses over rooftops or through the branches of olive trees, a wide, shimmering blue expanse was stretching out into the distance. Simply watching its movement was making Becky feel a little less tightly wound.
‘Relax,’ Petra told her. ‘We made it to Corfu. We fought strange wildlife and an even stranger Greek lady.’
Becky let out a breath, kicking her legs beneath her. ‘We haven’t found the car yet. If she won’t let us get supplies in her shop, we might be barbequing the local wildlife to survive.’
Petra looked lost in the conversation. ‘She has a shop?’
‘Yes, she told me, when you were… finding the flamingo.’
‘But she won’t let us use it?’ Now Petra seemed even more confused.
‘She said it was for local people and she said the word “local” with a lot more emphasis than was needed. But she didn’t want us going to the supermarket either.’
‘So, she wants us to starve?’ Petra queried, splashing away a wasp that had landed in the water. ‘That’s not very hospitable and Greece is meant to be one of the most hospitable nations there is. Julia Bradbury didn’t seem to have any problems getting doors opened for her.’
‘Now you’ve said the word “starving” I’m really quite hungry,’ Becky admitted. She had had nothing since the divine meal on Kefalonia the previous night. Becky had put her need to avoid Elias and Petra above a spread of cheeses and hams at breakfast… and look where that had got her. With one of them as a new housemate!
‘There’s bottled water in the fridge and a platter of fruit. I ate some grapes,’ Petra admitted. ‘OK, I ate all the grapes but there’s other stuff left… peaches, nectarines and cherries.’
Now Becky’s stomach was really waking up to the fact it was empty. Her new approach to life had to be not to be bullied by anyone with a larger personality than her. She may not talk the loudest or have the most interesting stories for parties like Petra, but that didn’t mean her thoughts and feelings didn’t matter. And she wasn’t going to be told where she could or couldn’t shop.
‘Right,’ Becky said, taking one hand off the wall and kicking her legs a little harder. ‘Once we’ve finished our swim we’re going to have a good look around the grounds and we’re going to find the car and we’re going to drive to the nearest supermarket and buy our provisions.’
‘Ooo, provisions,’ Petra said with a laugh. ‘How old are you again?’
Was that a real question or was Petra taking the rise out of her use of the English language? She hadn’t quite got the complete tell of Petra yet… but there would be no real need to, would there? Because Petra was only staying very short-term. She needed to continue to make that clear. No amount of shovelling of bear-thing shit and cat pee was going to make Becky give in to Petra staying for the whole duration of her working break.
‘Shall I guess?’ Petra carried on, letting go of the wall and treading water as she seemed to survey Becky in a bid to work out her age.
‘Oh, you were serious,’ Becky replied, copying Petra’s move and swimming her way into the centre of the pool.
‘Thirty…’ Petra began.
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa. We won’t be having any more guessing now!’ Becky exclaimed. Did she really look thirty-something? OK, she didn’t have the whole skincare cleansing routine that seemed to be on fleek at the moment, but she washed her face morning and night and generally ate healthily. She might do well from a bit more exercise but wouldn’t anyone?
‘I’m twenty-five,’ Becky informed her.
‘Really?’ Petra said, looking a lot like she didn’t believe her.
‘Yes, really,’ Becky answered. ‘How about you? Thirty…’
‘Very funny,’ Petra said, poking her tongue out and swimming away from Becky. She chased her companion, trying to keep up with Petra’s strokes. Perhaps that exercise was more needed than she thought.
‘I’m twenty,’ Petra said, turning around and resting her back against the other end of the pool, arms outstretched across the length of the wall.
‘Wow,’ Becky replied. ‘And you’ve done all this travelling already.’
Petra shrugged her shoulders. ‘Life’s too short to waste it being someone’s workplace bitch.’
‘I… guess it is,’ Becky agreed. But wasn’t she Megan’s sandwich-making workplace bitch? She was sure Petra would have an opinion on her sister’s outburst about her having a holiday. But she wasn’t sure she was quite ready to hear it.
‘And I never really had any plans for my life before… before I started travelling.’ Petra smiled. ‘So, I’ve made travelling my life. And no regrets so far.’ She sniffed. ‘No pension pot for my retirement, but I’m hopeful of a rich sheikh or oligarch one day, you know, when I’m done toying with the Greek gods.’
It was a simplistic view. Some might say it was a ridiculous, frivolous idea for her future, but it was Petra’s life to live and she was definitely living it. Perhaps Becky could take a small lesson from her. Not the kissing lots of random men with only the briefest of introductions, but perhaps the living in the moment and not caring less what anyone else thinks part. Being true to herself. She sighed. The first thing she needed to do was stop feeling guilty about this argument with Megan and stop checking her messages for some sort of apology or at least a checking in, how-are-you-doing text. Becky didn’t regret anything she had said to her sister, therefore she shouldn’t be constantly going over it in her head thinking she might have said something different simply to keep the peace. Sometimes it was good to be confrontational, especially if you were confronting people with the truth from your heart. Who could ever go wrong with the truth?
‘Right, Petra,’ Becky said, confidently pushing away from the stone surround of the pool, arms and legs working the water around her body in nice smooth and fluid movements. ‘We are going to find this car. We are going to drive to the nearest place with a proper supermarket and we are going to buy lots and lots of…’ She stopped herself before she said the word ‘provisions’ again. ‘What should I be saying instead of “provisions” that doesn’t make me sound like the thirty-something I’m not? Shopping? Food?’
‘Ouzo and shit,’ Petra said with a laugh. ‘We’re going to go out and buy lots and lots of ouzo and shit.’
‘Ouzo and shit,’ Becky said, relaxing her shoulders into the water and preparing to push her stomach up into a float on the surface. ‘Great.’
Petra swam up close to her again, one of her plaits in her mouth, sucking it like a baby might suck a pacifier. ‘Are you really only twenty-five? Like, for reals?’
Thirty
Liakada Village
The sun was setting, turning the bright blue sky of the hot day into a fiesta of pink and purple. Elias watched it from the table he had chosen inside the cafeneon. He had drunk a half bottle of ouzo with his father that afternoon and now he was determined to drink his way through a carafe of his mother’s homemade white wine and get to the bottom of what was going on with his parents. His father was no longer at home. His father had made a place to live out of the storage shed they owned lower down in the village, next to the goats and the chickens. His parents were separated. And as he spoke that sentence in his head it still made him shudder. His parents, he had thought, were unbreakable. Toge
ther since school, so completely in tune with one another, so vital in each other’s lives… If a relationship like theirs crashed against the rocks what hope was there for anyone else? He swigged at his wine, not really tasting it. Except he didn’t believe there was hope for anyone else, did he? Surely this underlining of the mantra he lived by shouldn’t be coming as any sort of surprise. But sometimes, being right about something when you had thought there was one exception to the rule, didn’t feel so nice.
‘Why are you sitting there?’ his mother asked, bustling over with a terracotta clay pot in her oven-gloved hands. ‘You are in the centre of everything. Move to a table in the corner.’
Elias slugged at his wine. ‘No.’
‘What did you say?’ his mother asked him, the clay pot still in her hands. Elias could smell its contents on the steam rising from the small hole in the centre of its lid. Stifado. Beautifully tender pieces of beef that had been simmering slowly for hours – possibly days – together with baby onions all swimming in the thickest tomato and herb sauce. His mother’s stifado was almost legendary among the locals. It was a recipe that had been handed down through generations.
‘I said,’ he began, trying not to lick his lips and make his mother realise just how much he needed the food she was holding. If he wasn’t careful, she could just as easily put it down in front of the locals outside, still sitting around their backgammon games. ‘I am happy with my choice of table… and this wine is… better. A good year for the apples this year?’
Something seemed to shift in his mother’s eyes then, a dulling of her furore perhaps. She put the pot down in front of him and he reached for the lid. Immediately she slapped him away with one of her gloved hands. ‘What are you doing? It is hot like fire! It has come straight from the oven! Do you want to burn your hands off?’ She picked up the lid, her hands protected from the heat, and carefully put it down on the table opposite him. ‘And there is nothing different about the wine. The wine is always good.’
