by Sara Alexi
She refills the crisps bowl and cuts some sausages into pieces on a plate. She arranges the offerings with paper napkins on the table. She can hear Vasso in the bathroom singing to herself but there is no sound of Stavros’ rhythmic snore.
She picks up her ouzo glass and sits.
A noise outside alerts her, not the usual sound of a dog on the scavenge or a cat being careless. Without moving, she looks out of the window but all is dark. Then there is a shape. It grows larger. It is approaching the house. Stella stands. It is a person, but who would be calling so late and why? Is it Abby? No, it is too large.
Stavros!
‘Oh, are you home already?’ He barely looks at her as he closes the door behind him.
‘I thought you were in bed.’ The ouzo spins her thoughts. Nothing is open at this time. Farmers are in bed. A familiar feeling of the inevitable fills her empty chest. To get a glass of water he walks past her to the sink. There is a smell of scent, perfume. In Stella’s mind an image of Abby. The ouzo has loosened her enough to allow her to be brave. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she demands.
He finishes drinking. ‘I got talking to Vasso,’ he slurs nonchalantly.
‘Vasso? At the kiosk?’ Stella’s heartbeat increases. A strong acid taste is in her mouth. She is about to contradict him, when he goes on to say, ‘Yes, sat for a while at the kafenio and then went for cigarettes, got talking, you know how it is. Thought you were still at the ouzeri.’
‘So you have just left her?’ Stella asks, her eyes narrow.
‘Is there anything to eat? Yes, just now.’ Stavros opens the fridge as Vasso comes back in the room, the fridge door obscuring them from each other.
‘There is also Marina. Now she didn’t have a nice husband either, he was even worse than yours. When he died he left her nothing. Look what she did! It took guts to open that corner shop, but now’ – she brings her hands up in front of her and waves circles to illustrate the enormity of what Marina has achieved – ‘what would we do without her?’ she concludes and tries to close the fridge door as she goes past.
On hearing Vasso’s voice, Stavros jerks straight from his chilly search. He remains static, looking at Stella trapped like a rabbit in a headlight. The closing fridge door stops against his immoveable stomach. He breaks his stare, his bastion of attack brings words to his mouth.
‘Watch it, woman.’ His gruff attitude more of a warning than his chosen words, he pushes back against the closing fridge door.
‘Oh!’ But Vasso says no more. With raised brow she looks at Stella.
Stella’s gaze is fixed on Stavros.
He looks from Vasso to Stella, shuts the fridge door with a slam which, after another strong stare, is followed by the slamming of the bedroom door.
Vasso drinks the remains of her drink and picks up her bag. ‘Early morning,’ she states.
‘You don’t need to leave.’ Stella has not moved yet.
‘I think I probably do.’ Vasso puts her arm around Stella, who fits neatly, and gives her a hug. ‘Goodnight.’ Her voice is soft.
They kiss each other on both cheeks and Vasso gives Stella’s hand a last squeeze.
After she is gone Stella takes a blanket from the cupboard in the bathroom and tucks it under her arm.
The night is still, the warmth gentle, the stars bright. But it brings Stella no joy.
The square is empty, no light in the village. She unlocks the shop but turns on no light. The green walls are eerie, the place hollow. She pulls tables together. It is a strange bed she has made.
Chapter 11
The sausages are browning quickly and Abby does not know how to ensure they are cooked on the inside with such a hot grill.
‘Stella?’ Abby says. Stella is sorting through cutlery, making sure it is all clean.
‘What?’ she snaps. Abby decides conversation can wait. She goes through to the eating area to find three tables pushed together, she drags them apart and swings chairs under them, four to each.
There was no ‘good morning’ when she arrived, just a tea towel thrown at her. It felt shocking and Abby wondered what she had done. She put the pots away and still Stella did not speak to her. But she did move the pots out from where Abby put them to shift them to a lower shelf, followed by a harsh glare.
Abby considers whether she can put up with the hot and cold behaviour much longer. She probably has the money to go to Saros now.
‘That doesn’t belong there.’ Stella snaps when Abby puts her tea towel down on the counter top.
Abby says nothing but stares, wondering again what has she done wrong.
Yesterday they had chatted on so many subjects. It had been fascinating and it had been a real buzz to explain to Stella some of the things she had learned about business at school. She had felt like she belonged. She hadn’t even thought to ring Yiannis in Saros. She had almost made the decision to stay. She had even written a postcard, with a picture of a kitten in a sock hanging from a washing line, to her Dad to tell what had happened and to give him her address. Besides, moving again, getting to know new people, what was the point? She isn’t at all sure that the Saros job is really what she wants.
‘Sweep in there.’ Stella points to the room with the tables and chairs.
Abby snatches the brush leaning against the wall and sweeps, digging into the corners the behind the tables.
‘Here, spray it with water, for the dust.’ Stella bangs a spray bottle on one of the tables. Her tone is still harsh.
‘Stella, is there something wrong?’ Abby asks quietly.
‘What can be wrong? You tell me Abby.’ Her eyes flash but she does not look Abby in the face.
Maybe she should go to Saros today.
Sure, she likes dancing and partying as much as the next person, but she isn’t really a party animal like Jackie. In all honesty she enjoys a good book just as much as a night on the town. So the bar job might or might not suit her. But at this rate there will be no choice.
Given a choice she feels sure she would stay. The old-fashioned feel of the village is cool. There are lots of old farmers in the unfurnished café on the square and they stare a bit, but none of them means any harm. It is just, well, it seems they are a bit bored really. No, maybe she would be better off going to Saros. At least everyone would be her age there. At least that’s what Jackie said.
Abby finishes sweeping. She checks the food, moves the sausages to a cooler part of the grill and goes behind to put on the radio, which is by the sink.
‘Turn it down.’ Stella barks but Abby’s hand is on the knob to do so before her sentence is finished, it had been left with the volume turned right up.
Dancing is fun. But you can’t talk to people in a bar, the music is always too loud. At least here she has got to know Stella a bit, when she is not in this weird mood, and Vasso who is hilarious. Also she has spoken to a man called Theo who owns the café where the old men sit, and he pointed out a house set back off the road a little just beyond the square that is a bar – a real bar with a pool table. She walked past, but felt too nervous to go in. There were two groups of boys sitting outside, one lot a bit older than her and the others in their teens. She recognised the boys who had come in for giros and given her the two euro tip.
The bar wasn’t rocking; the music was quiet enough to talk. They had a huge screen so you could go and just watch TV as you drank. She would go if she had someone to go with.
There is a low rumble. Abby comes round from behind the grill and looks out of the door up to the sky. Clear blue. But the rumble comes again. She steps outside and looks about her. Out towards the sea is a bank of dark clouds rolling their way towards the village.
‘Looks like rain,’ she says cheerfully to Stella. The hot air needs freshening.
‘Not in this village. Always passes us. The next village gets it,’ Stella replies, clipped, as she writes in her order book.
‘Really?’ Abby looks at Stella but Stella does not answer. Abby takes the bag of potatoes
outside with a knife and a bowl. Maybe if she is polite and waits Stella will tell her if she has done something wrong. She had been willing to stay later last night but it was Stella who said to go. She had been almost insistent, and she had been happy and kind in the way she had said it.
“Actually Abby,” Stella stops, lays her pen down, wipes her hands on a cloth and picks Abby’s bag off the hook. ‘Just go!’
Stella takes Abby’s bag and marches passed her into the street.
‘What? Hang on, I ...’ Abby scrabbles to stand, drops the knife and potato to run after her bag. Stella disappears behind that bus which has paused to pick up the school children. Abby rounds the end to see Stella stepping from the bus back down onto the pavement.
‘Where’s my bag? What’s going on?’ Abby shouts.
‘Your bag is on the bus. You are leaving.’ Without another word Stella marches off.
With one step aboard the bus to retrieve her bag a hiss of compressed air closes the doors behind Abby, as she reaches her bag on the first seat the bus jolts forwards, throwing her against the seat.
Out of the window she can see Stella striding back across the road. There seems to be no reason for this sudden flare up.
Should she have insisted on staying last night when Stella made the suggestion she left early? She was cheerful and laughing then, so it must have been after that. Abby had left and walked back to Vasso’s. The meat and onion stew Vasso had made and left on the stove was amazing, although Abby’s stomach had been full of all the chips she had eaten during the day, she still had two bowls full. Had she eaten too many chips at lunchtime? Should she have offered to pay for them?
After that nothing. She had gone to bed early, written a second postcard to Dad, with a picture of a dolphins leaping out of the sea, read for a while, heard Vasso crashing in at some late hour and then slept well, and she hadn’t been late arriving this morning. She had got up early enough to give the card to the postman. Apparently there is no post box in the village. But posting a card to her Dad didn’t have anything to do with Stella.
The bus makes a turn and picks up some more children and then heads back through the village, the way it came, towards the town. Stella is inside the shadows of the ouzeri, leaning on the counter with her head in her hands. A drop of rain runs down the bus window.
Abby can feel a lump in throat. She swallows. They had talked so much yesterday, she felt she had known Stella forever, that she would know Stella for ever. At one point when they had been working Stella had held onto her waist as she squeezed passed behind the grill, another time Stella had swept her hair out of her eyes for her when she was turning the chickens. Really tender, caring. Abby’s chest feels hollow and heavy at the same time, the lump in her throat bigger.
‘Well stuff her!’ she hisses to the window as the orange groves speed past. The village recedes behind her, she sniffs and wipes the back of her hand across her eyes.
If it is not something she has done then it’s just how Stella is, hot and cold. A whole summer of Stella’s moods and Stavros’ creepy looks might be too much. She looks at the diminishing houses of the village through the back window. She will miss Vasso, and Stella when she is in a good mood. But the whole moody thing is boring. She wipes her eyes again. She will have to buy the books again that she has left beside her bed, and a new toothbrush.
Abby had shown no signs of guilt when she arrived this morning. Stella leans against the counter, her head in her hands, the noise of the bus leaving the village behind her.
She had almost not expected her to turn up this morning. She has a nerve. Although, to be fair, Stella isn’t quite so sure now it was Abby’s scent she had smelled on Stavros. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so hasty? Besides it isn’t as if she wants Stavros any more. So why stop someone else having him?
No, that isn’t it. She thought Abby was a nice girl and deserves better, but now, after this? But after what? Stavros lying and smelling of perfume isn’t proof that Abby has done anything. What if she is wrong? Oh Abby.
Stella grabs some kitchen roll and wipes her face, blowing her nose noisily. Abby did nothing but help and be kind. Yesterday she had been like ... Stella stiffens, as the words come to mind ‘like a daughter’. She fears she has just made a big mistake. She knows deep down that she has not behaved rationally. But after a night sleeping on the tables, is it any wonder? It’s not Abby’s fault though. Probably ...
Abby counts out her money for the boat to Saros. With her tips she has just enough.
‘Next one, she leaves, you are lucky, fifteen minutes.’ He points to the big ferry boat in the harbour and passes her a ticket.
There is a rumble. Abby looks up to the gathering grey clouds and feels a droplet of rain. Her bag is light without the books, she boards the ship and trips up the stairs to the first deck, from where she can see the town, the orange orchards and, so close, the village. The boat is rocking already with the wind that is picking up, her hair blows across her face and some strands stick with the occasional raindrops. It is still very warm.
Inside is calmer. Abby counts what’s left of her money. If Yiannis is not true to his word about the job, if the job has gone or if she cannot find the place, she is in serious trouble. Whatever happens she will not ring home for help, she will find a way. She looks out over the sea which seems very large. Waves are starting to break over the concrete jetty, and in the distance the sea is a moody green, with occasional whitecaps. She takes her key ring teddy from her bag and holds him against her cheek.
The rocking of the boat increases and over the tannoy someone shouts in unintelligible Greek. Some people get up and leave the bar area she is in. The barman stops wiping the counter and slings his cloth to one side. He looks up at her briefly, picks up some glasses and disappears through a narrow door between the shelves of bottles.
She stares out of the window and watches the skies darkening. The voice shouts through the speakers again but it is meaningless to Abby. At least twenty minutes have passed. Abby looks around to see if anyone else is impatient, but the bar is empty, the bar tender is idly polishing glasses.
She waits, the boat is rocking quite hard now. Eventually she stands and wanders over to the bar, weaving a little, trying to keep her balance.
‘Are we late going?’ She asks.
‘We don’t go, you no hear? Apagoreftico.’
‘A what?’
‘Apagoreftico, too much wind, they order all boats to not leave.’ He holds a glass up to the light.
Abby swallows and turns away. She doesn’t want him to see the tears threatening to fall.
The descent to the harbour is as in a dream, unreal, the skies a deep grey. Her pockets empty of money, friendless and alone, she sits on a bollard as large droplets of rain fall, teasing the dusty ground, the flowers in the pots around the harbour releasing ozone. The light has a strange white quality.
‘Hey lady, it is going to rain very hard very soon, you must go indoors,’ says a man inspecting one of the ferry’s mooring lines.
But where to go? It is ridiculous, one minute she has a job, a room, the next she is being bundled on a bus, not even given the opportunity to get her books, oh and her hairbrush, from Vasso’s. Quite honestly, things could not get any worse.
Even in the avalanche of bleakness there is a nagging fear that there is something worse, something she has forgotten. It is remembered in a flash, sinking her to the floor, her legs twisted under her, the wind knocked out of her, all blood drained from her face. Stavros still has her passport. She loses all will to move, all power to fight.
‘Eisai kala? Eh? Er.... You ok?’ Abby looks up through filmy eyes, she recognises the man from the bakery, his warm bread every morning her breakfast.
‘This not good for sit.’ The rain begins to fall sparsely. ‘Going village?’ He lifts her from under her arms, helping her to stand. Her face is wet from the light rain. Abby surreptitiously wipes her eyes anyway. In a daze her thoughts contract to the pre
sent moment. At least if she goes with him she will be sitting somewhere dry. The village no longer matters, she is only interested in how she will survive the next minute - how stupid she has been. She should never have given her passport to Stavros. Stupid. She should have told the bus to stop and make Stella say whatever was bothering her, face her. Stupid.
She pulls herself to her senses and finds she is in a dry car heading back to the village.
There is another rumble and then the clouds disgorge their contents without reserve. Stella rubs her neck. It is still sore and she still has a headache. The rain is running down the street like a river within minutes. The heavy droplets ping off the parked cars like peas. The sandwich shop closes its doors to stop the rain blowing in. A man with a newspaper over his head runs from the kiosk to the kafenio. The rain brings a different heat. Ozone fills the air. The smell of wet dust comes up to her from the pavement as she stands watching the spectacle. The grey sky deepens and the growling comes more often. Lights come on around the village and shutters creak closed.
Then, a flashing strobe sheets across the sky, casting deep shadows on everything for a fraction of a second, leaving Stella blinking in the after-dark. She wonders if Abby is somewhere dry. To throw her out at the beginning of a storm, what kind of person is she?
She waits for the lightning to come again, and this time the thunder is fast upon it.
‘No one will come to eat day,’ Stella announces to herself. ‘Sometimes these storms they last a couple of hours, but with this one, I think, the sky will go as black as night.’ She realizes it would be nicer if Abby was here with her. ‘Stupid woman.’ she chastises herself. ‘Stavros does wrong and you blame it on a child of sixteen. Stupid.’
Stella had just turned sixteen when she had gone down to the cheese factory to get her mother some feta. Wrapped in a cloth and paper she carried it under her arm when the bus from the town had stopped in her path. A group of boys she had known from school got off, amongst them one called Demosthenes who, on spotting her lurched and made a grab. The boys played catch with the cheese, Stella running widely from one to the other, the laughter growing, the throws more abandoned until Demosthenes himself threw the package into the bus. Stella had scuttled after it, the concertina doors closing after her.
