One Summer in Crete

by Nadia Marks

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ Calli asked, wondering why her cousin seemed so unconcerned. ‘Will she be all right?’ Calli tried to extract some kind of information from him.

  ‘I don’t know. She seems fine to me,’ he replied, turning to look at her. ‘I tell you one thing: she was over the moon when she heard you were coming.’

  They found Froso waiting in the yard, sitting at the wooden table under the shade of two old olive trees in front of the house. She knew that Costis was picking Calli up from the airport and was anxiously waiting for her. She had been up since early morning baking and preparing all of her niece’s favourite food. She had a soft spot for Calli, who reminded her of her own young self before life became a hardship. She had always thought that as a child her sister’s daughter possessed the same energy, the same defiant spirit that both she and Eleni had had at that age. But Froso’s spirit had been crushed early; she had to grow up fast and learn to be responsible. Being so much older than her brother and sister, she had to pull her weight around the house and help her mother with bringing up her siblings.

  She loved both children, her niece and her nephew, in equal measure; little Alex was always tender and sweet and displayed his affection for her openly, and although young Calli reserved her love exclusively for her grandmother it made no difference to her aunt.

  ‘She’ll grow out of it,’ Eleni would tell her sister when the girl refused to come to Crete with her anymore and she would arrive only with Alex. ‘She’ll come when she’s ready. You know how stubborn she is.’

  When Calli did at last return, she had just completed her first year at art school and had taken a month off to travel around Greece with a couple of friends to take photographs for her college project. Crete had been on their itinerary and their arrival on the island flooded her with a sweet nostalgia, reminding her of the happy summers she had spent there with her family. Calli’s decision to leave her friends behind and head for the old village was spontaneous and easy to make. She hadn’t seen any of her relatives since she was twelve, and while the half-a-dozen years that had passed since then might not have made a significant impact on the place or on her aunt and grandfather, for Calli they had been transformational. The old man was a little more lame and a lot more hard of hearing. Her uncle Androulios, her mother’s brother, had died in a car accident a couple of years before but Thia Froso was there, still good-looking and robust even if her hair was now flecked with silver. Calli, on the other hand, was a brand-new person. Gone was the lanky girl on the verge of moody teenagehood or the lively seven-year-old who would have swum in the sea from morning to dusk if they had allowed it. She was now a beautiful, composed young woman with a camera around her neck and regret in her heart for leaving it for so long to visit these good people who loved her.

  After that first trip Calli would return regularly, until she met James; then her visits became sparse once more.

  ‘There are so many other places in the world to visit apart from Crete,’ he would complain to her, and she, like a fool, would indulge him as ever.

  Seeing her aunt now under the familiar olive trees in that fragrant garden of her childhood, she felt a sense of belonging, a sense of freedom. All she had to think about now was herself, no James and his preferences, his idiosyncrasies and his capricious demands on her time, always feeling responsible for him. Now she was free to do as she pleased, be with whom she wanted to, go wherever she chose and stay as long as she desired.

  ‘Calliope mou!’ her aunt called as soon as she caught sight of her approaching the garden gate. Rising to her feet she hurried towards her visitor with open arms. ‘Welcome, my blessed child,’ she said, embracing her and showering her with kisses. ‘Come, sit, let me look at you, you are as beautiful as ever.’

  Thia Froso looked well, Calli thought, stealing glances at her while they talked. As her aunt stood up to go into the house to fetch some refreshments, she watched her move without effort and stride towards the kitchen door.

  ‘She looks perfectly OK.’ She turned to Costis with relief. ‘I was fearful of how I would find her.’

  ‘I only know what my mother tells me,’ he replied with a shrug, ‘and she told me she hadn’t been too well, but who knows? People exaggerate, don’t they?’

  Froso reappeared, walking steadily towards the two cousins, carrying a tray with three small glasses, a mini-carafe of raki, three tiny silver forks and a plate of orange peel slices in syrup – the customary citrus glyko and the perfect accompaniment to the white spirit. This offering, Calli knew, was the traditional welcoming drink in those parts and something she remembered her father was particularly fond of; Keith always looked forward to this Cretan custom with relish.

  ‘Before everyone else arrives we will drink a toast,’ Thia Froso said to the two young people as she poured the raki. ‘Welcome back to us, my girl, we have been waiting for you,’ she said, turning to Calli, and raised her glass.

  13

  Calli had indeed returned, in more than one sense. She could hardly remember the last time she had sat under the olive trees with the people she loved, and her mind free of anxiety and concern for anyone apart from those she had come to visit. Her aunt had been cooking for the evening’s gathering and promised that she would be preparing more of the dishes which she deemed unavailable in England and which she knew that her niece especially enjoyed.

  ‘Remember Manolis, the old fisherman?’ she asked while the two of them started to set the table under the trees for the feast. ‘He has promised to catch some barbouni, red mullet, tomorrow. But tonight, we will eat what I prepared this morning, I don’t want to spend all my time in the kitchen on your first evening.’

  Gradually neighbours, friends and relatives close and distant started to arrive, bringing their own gastronomic offerings to the gathering. In no time the table was groaning under plates of steaming moussaka, stifado, salads, fava dip, tzatziki, village bread, and a huge platter of briam. This dish, a vegetable stew of aubergines, herbs, peppers, potatoes and courgettes cooked in flavoursome tomato sauce, was a special favourite of Calli’s; though akin to the French ratatouille it was enhanced, she was sure, with some kind of Cretan magic. She couldn’t identify what made it different from its French or mainland Greek counterpart, perhaps it was the potatoes, she just didn’t know, but in her view the Cretan recipe decidedly had the edge.

  ‘It’s because I make it with love, that’s why you love it so much,’ her grandmother used to say when Calli as a young girl had come back for more.

  Everyone that evening had been invited to the house to welcome the new arrival and one by one took their place at the table. Several of Froso and Eleni’s cousins and their grown-up children with their wives and husbands were present, and Calli was delighted to see among them Andreas and his sister Vasiliki, whom she was very fond of even though, she remembered, Vasiliki had mostly refused to join in their rough-and-tumble games, preferring to stay home by her mother’s side. How many summers had she and her brother Alex spent playing with their cousins and kids in the village, all galloping across the neighbouring hills and beaches until sundown? How could she have neglected these people, she asked herself; how could she have put that part of her life to one side for so long? Manolis had come too, promising to deliver fresh fish for her every day.

  ‘I remember your mama always asked me to bring her some Maridaki whitebait, because it’s your papa’s favourite,’ the fisherman told her. ‘Where can she find such fresh fish for him in your London now, eh? Tell me!’ he demanded with a hearty laugh.

  The local wine flowed, the food was eaten with relish and everyone’s spirits were high; when all was consumed and the table cleared, the raki was once again brought to the table and all glasses were filled. No feast was ever complete without a bottle of liquid fire, as Calli referred to the drink, to mark the end of the meal. All the guests stayed until late except for Costis’s wife Chrysanthi, who had to take the children home to bed but who promised to return the ne
xt day.

  ‘You’ve done well, my cousin,’ Calli goaded him after Chrysanthi had left. ‘Your wife is a beautiful person . . . Where did you find her and how did you manage it?’ she teased.

  ‘She comes from the other side of the island, and she hasn’t done too badly herself to find me, either,’ he protested, laughing, and poured himself another shot of raki.

  That first night, after everyone left, Calli, Costis and Thia Froso sat together under the olive trees in the night breeze, chatting quietly until sleep started to get the better of them.

  The next morning, she woke early. She had slept deeply and soundly in the old bed she used to occupy as a child. Her good-sized bedroom on the first floor of the house had two picture windows, one at each end, looking to the sea in one direction and in the other to the mountains. The two single beds against the wall had been for herself and Alex when they were children, both facing towards the sea. When Calli had started to visit the house with James her aunt would always push the beds together and lay her best cotton sheets edged with lace over them – but this wasn’t good enough for James. ‘This is so uncomfortable, I haven’t slept in a single bed since I was a child,’ he whinged.

  From a young age Calli loved to rise early, throw open the wooden shutters and then climb back into bed to lie and look out of the window to the sea; that morning was no exception. Both the early breeze from the shore and the evening one from the mountains always found their way into that room, never did she feel the stifling heat of high summer which engulfed her the moment she walked downstairs to the kitchen or living area.

  She stretched back on the cool sheets, folded her arms behind her head and through the open window feasted her eyes on the vast blue of the Libyan sea, following the perfect line of the horizon which never ceased to enchant her. There she lay until she heard her aunt’s footsteps out in the back yard. She must be collecting eggs from the chicken coop, she thought and sprang to her feet to look out of the window.

  She loved that morning ritual, which her grandmother Calliope also used to observe, and which her young self had eagerly anticipated. ‘Come, come my little one,’ her yiayia would call out to her each morning. ‘Let’s go and hunt for eggs,’ she would call again, raising the girl from her sleep. Calli could think of nothing more thrilling or more precious than the discovery of a new-laid egg, which she would hold in her child’s palm like precious treasure. She would keep it for a moment, feeling its warmth and brushing off the tiny feathers clinging to the shell, before gingerly placing it in the basket with the eggs her grandmother had already collected. Once they had finished, they would return to the kitchen and breakfast would be cooked. ‘Full of goodness,’ her yiayia would say lovingly. ‘Fresh eggs, they will make you grow up healthy and strong, my little one.’

  She missed the old lady; the memory of her voice and especially her laughter lingered on in Calli’s mind. She was aware that she had resisted poor Thia Froso’s attempts to be something of a substitute but in her child’s mind all those years ago her loyalties lay with her grandmother who was irreplaceable. She now remembered with a sense of guilt, how soon after Yiayia Calliope passed away Froso tried to entice her into collecting the eggs with her, but the more the aunt tried to replace her grandmother, the more the result was to push the little girl further away until eventually she refused to visit the village any longer. The memory made her feel bad and a regretful fondness for her poor aunt flooded her thoughts.

  The news about Froso’s ill health had worried Calli, but since her aunt appeared to be well and had made no mention of it, she decided to leave it to her to raise the subject. Leaning out of the window now, looking at the top of her aunt’s head, she fancied it was old Calliope walking back to the house with a basket of eggs. I suppose in the end we all end up looking like our mothers, she mused, aware that she too was starting to resemble her own mother these days. Grabbing a long T-shirt she threw it on over the cotton shorts she was sleeping in, and without bothering to look for shoes ran downstairs to join her aunt.

  ‘Kalimera, Calliope mou,’ Froso said, turning round to look at the young woman standing on the stone floor in her bare feet. ‘How about some eggs for breakfast?’ she said smiling, pointing at the basket in her arms.

  ‘Perfect!’ Calli replied; although she was not in the least bit hungry after the last evening’s feast, she could hardly refuse.

  ‘They said it’s going to be a scorcher today but it’s still cool outside,’ Froso said, gesturing towards the back door with her chin. ‘Why don’t you go out to the garden while it’s still fresh and pick some tomatoes while you’re about it?’

  Her aunt was right, it felt refreshing in the garden; the early morning dew which had drifted from the mountains in the night was still visible on the leaves, though Calli knew that in an hour or so it would be gone and replaced by the blistering summer heat. She wandered around the back garden, paying a visit to the hens and the rabbits which again as a child she would spend hours petting, only to discover at some point that one of the furry animals that she adored had ended up in a stifado stew. She had refused of course ever to eat it; it took years to persuade her even to taste the dish and then only after her grandmother promised to replace rabbit as the main ingredient with lamb or octopus.

  The unmistakable aroma of fried eggs wafted through the kitchen window out to the yard, making her salivate and instantly transporting her once again to childhood summers. She walked back into the house with a handful of red tomatoes and sat at the table.

  ‘Good to have you here, my girl,’ her aunt said, turning around with the frying pan ready to dish out the food, ‘and soon we’ll have your mama here too, the three of us all together like old times. It’s been too long since I’ve seen my sister.’

  ‘Good to be here, Thia,’ Calli replied and meant it more than ever.

  She tucked into a morning feast: goat’s cheese and olives, fried tomatoes and eggs and chunky village bread for mopping up the bright orange yolk. Then, just as she sat back in her chair having eaten more than enough, Costis’s wife Chrysanthi breezed through the door carrying a plate of mizithra and a pot of heather honey from her own hive. How could Calli resist one of her favourite dishes? This soft fresh cheese served with a spoonful of honey and a sprinkling of cinnamon was in her opinion more delicious than the best ice cream she had ever tasted in London.

  ‘Kalimera!’ her cousin’s wife greeted them cheerfully. ‘Costis told me how much you love mizithra with honey, so I brought you some.’ She drew up a chair to join them. This too was another fond memory for Calli. She loved the impromptu visits from friends and relatives, especially from the women, who would gather during the day and sit under the shade of the trees, drinking coffee and gossiping until one or the other would jump up and run home to prepare the table for the midday meal before the men came home from work. No one lived far away; they could call to each other across their gardens or from their kitchen windows, and if they were visiting, they could even keep an ear and an eye out if food was cooking on their stove.

  Calli liked her cousin’s wife, a primary school teacher, an open-hearted cheerful young woman with large round eyes the colour of roasted chestnuts and an equally large, full-lipped mouth that seemed to be perpetually set in a smile. Her hair, Calli noticed, was lighter than that of other young local women, who mostly seemed to possess velvety coal-black tresses. Chrysanthi’s hair framed her face in soft light-brown curls with shades of gold when catching the sun.

  ‘Costis often talks about you and your brother,’ she said, busying herself with the food. ‘He even talks to the children about the two of you,’ she continued as she poured honey over the cheese. She paused for a second and then looked up with smiling eyes. ‘I feel so happy to meet you at last, Calliope!’

  ‘And I’m very happy finally to meet you too, Chrysanthi,’ Calli said with genuine sincerity, struck for the second time that morning by a pang of regret for the lost years.

  ‘Costis told me
they call you Calli in England. Do you prefer me to call you that?’ the young woman asked, spooning a portion of cheese into a bowl for her.

  ‘You can call me whatever you prefer,’ Calli replied with a smile, and reached for the bowl. That morning the three women sat in the kitchen talking cheerfully, until Froso announced that she had errands to do in the village.

  ‘You girls sit and chat,’ she told them, reaching for a basket hanging on a hook behind the door. ‘I need to go and see Manolis for the fish.’

  There was no shortage of conversation between Chrysanthi and Calli that day; they sat at the kitchen table over their cheese and coffee until the heat in the room banished them to the garden, where a breeze was blowing from the shore.

  Calli felt as comfortable with her cousin’s wife as she had done a few weeks previously with Sylvie and Maya on that other enchanting island in the Aegean.

  ‘I love being a teacher,’ Chrysanthi said at one point when they were discussing their work. ‘Apart from the children, I also love having the summers free,’ she giggled apologetically. ‘Mind you,’ she added, ‘they say it’s free, but between looking after my own kids and the house it’s not exactly a holiday.’ Calli couldn’t quite imagine what the responsibility of running a home and a family was like. She loved her work too and kept a fairly neat apartment with the help of her cleaning lady once a week. But with no children to look after she could work whenever she liked, sometimes well into the night if she had a deadline. Without the restrictions of a family, she and James could please themselves.

  ‘Tomorrow night you will come to our house,’ Chrysanthi suddenly declared enthusiastically. ‘I shall cook dinner for all the family and friends. I want everyone who doesn’t know you, to meet you. We must celebrate your homecoming.’

  Calli was sure that if this woman had grown up in the village during those long summers of her childhood, they would have been good friends. She had always longed for a girl as a playmate – her cousin Vasiliki, she remembered with amusement, was her only female cousin and she hadn’t been that much fun. Better late than never, she smiled to herself; if she had lacked a girl friend then when she was growing up, maybe she would find one now.