“We can’t expect too much, Angus, you know that. We’re just chipping away at things. What else can we do?” I said.
I felt rather dispirited myself and again wondered at the wisdom of this mission, especially on a sunny day when we could have been swimming in the gulf. Polly had to rush away on another errand and suggested we all meet up for lunch one day.
“That would be lovely, Polly. I’m sorry if we wasted your morning,” said Angus, kissing her goodbye.
“Not at all. It was interesting and so nice also to meet Bronte,” she said, kissing me on both cheeks. “You are very pretty, my dear, and you have wonderful hair. Maybe you will be able to persuade your father to have his lovely hair cut a bit shorter, yes, without the pony’s tail,” she said, with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.
It seemed a rather familiar thing for an ex-student to say and Angus must have noticed my surprised look. As we walked back to the street where the car was parked he said rather breezily, “Polly has a playful nature, as you can see.”
“Is she married?”
“Divorced, but only lately. She has two daughters.”
“So, an attractive and unattached woman. A good catch for an old guy?” I said, goading him a little.
“Don’t even go there, Bronte. I’m not in the market for a relationship right now,” he said, in a snippy voice.
“No, I don’t suppose the old ticker’s up to it,” I said, relishing this kind of niggly banter that we increasingly fell into now, even though there was generally a darker undercurrent to it.
Once more I got the sense that I didn’t really know my father at all. Sometimes I almost felt like I’d been in a coma for years and had woken up to find I had a father I didn’t remember.
Chapter 13
A poltergeist wind
The email from Crayton, which I read on my laptop in the Zefiros, was brief and a bit cool: “Sorry to hear about your father’s health problem. Bad time to ask for an extension on your holiday, as you said. I have discussed this with the editor. He was not well pleased, but has under the circumstances generously offered another three weeks. That’s the best we can do. In return, we would like you to write an in-depth feature on the Greek crisis, include all facts and figures, talk to a range of people, get plenty of colour. Can it be ready before you leave Greece? With pics, of course.”
Another three weeks. That was beyond my expectations. Too generous for the Alba, even though it had been turned into an assignment rather than compassionate leave. Ho hum! Three weeks ago I wouldn’t have cared either way, but now I felt a sense of relief that I had more time, now that we were hammering on with Mission Kieran.
I had nothing much planned for the day and thought I might talk Angus into driving down to the gulf for a swim. It was scorching weather for late September, with a hot, dry wind blowing.
Elpida arrived with a frappé and a slice of cake. “You look pleased today, Bronte. Good news?”
“My boss back in Scotland has just given me another three weeks off,” I replied, beaming.
“Just like that?” she said, snapping her fingers. “Why you don’t ask for more weeks before. Why now?”
Elpida was a shrewd birdie, there was no doubting it. I had not forgotten I wasn’t to tell everyone in the village about Angus’s heart issue and the research we were doing, although I felt I could trust Leonidas and Myrto. I hoped I was right on that score.
“Well, em … it’s a kind of trade-off. I get more time here but I have to write a story about the Greek crisis.”
She sat down at the table, waving her hand around, holding a fork in it for my cake.
“You need three months then, Bronte, to get whole story on crisis.”
“Okay, tell me what you think. That will be an excellent start.”
She put down the fork and I hoed into the cake. Then I reached into my bag and took out a notebook. Might as well make a start, and no-one could talk like Elpida when she was on a roll. She shared her thoughts about the crisis, about new taxes, VAT hikes, and how everything had gone quiet in the business, how Greeks were cutting back on celebratory meals and evenings out. August was the busy month in the village and the last chance of the year to make big money. This year the takings had been abysmal.
“If things get worse, Bronte, we will close. This kafeneio has been in my family for 30 years. We can’t go on forever as we used to. But everyone suffers.” She told me a story about one of her village friends, who lived in a small house with her sister. Both were unmarried. Previously, they had their mother there as well. Then she died. Now they had lost the help of the mother’s pension and had nothing to live on.
Elpida held out her arms in disbelief. “What you think they do now? They have nothing. But their father had been good and left both small sums of money for when they marry. They have to use this now. They will never marry now. No-one will want them. Ach, panayia mou, holy mother!”
She pulled her chair in closer to the table so that I knew she was about to impart some fresh gossip.
“You know Leonidas, of course? I see you talk very nice with him at the yiorti at Saint Nektarios church, yes?” she said, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Yes, he was sociable,” I replied.
“He has very nice Greek girlfriend in England.”
“I know.”
“Oh, so you know everything already. Good. So, he has girlfriend in England. She works as dentist. So now I hear that he too is planning to leave Greece to work as a doctor in England. Too ambitious to stay here in the crisis,” she said, with certain disdain.
“I don’t think he’s made up his mind yet.”
“Oh yes, he makes up his mind. He is going, yes,” she said, most emphatically. “I move about the kafeneio and I hear everything, sooner or later,” she added, with a wink.
I didn’t doubt it. And what Elpida didn’t know about village life wasn’t worth knowing. But I sensed her impetus was more about mischief than anything approaching malevolence.
“You can’t blame him, with all the problems in the health sector now,” I offered.
“Yes, but his girlfriend Phaedra is beautiful too and her father has plenty money. He is doctor too, for children. He has nice villa in Koroni, on the other peninsula, and …”
She was distracted by another customer and went off to serve them. I would have to wait until another day for the rest of it. I think I got her drift. But it was interesting that so far Leonidas had only ever said he wasn’t sure about moving to England. Now he was going, apparently. Though whether it was for his career, or for the love of well-connected Phaedra, probably only Elpida would ever winkle it out. She would have made a great journalist, I mused.
I finished my coffee and sat for a while, feeling strangely fatigued. Elpida and I had talked for nearly an hour and I had made plenty of notes. More than ever I was longing for a swim. I decided to find Angus and see if he could drive us down to the cove. When Elpida came back to the table to pick up the money for the coffee she narrowed her eyes at me. What now, I thought.
“You looking tired, Bronte. You need siesta. Today we have the sirokos blowing, the hot African wind. Makes all people feel treloi, crazy, and tired. Me too. You go home, have a rest.”
There was something about that day that I remember well. It was hot, but more than that, the air felt tight and there was a metallic taste in the air. I felt a migraine coming on, which I rarely ever experienced. Yet instead of the pain, I had an aura of coloured, dazzling lights that started in a tight circle at the centre of one eye, working towards the outer edge. I decided to go straight home. She was right. I needed a rest.
I found Angus in the kitchen, making lunch for himself. I told him about my extension on the holiday. He looked pleased, and gave me a hug. It made me wince.
“You look tired, Bronte. What’s the matter? Maybe the thought of another three weeks with me doesn’t entice you after all?”
I smiled. “It’s not that. I’m pleased. But I’ve su
ddenly got a migraine. Funny lights in my eyes.”
“Oh,” he said, stepping back a little and looking at me. “You better lie down. It’s the African wind. It stuffs you up completely.”
It was three o’clock when I finally lay down on my bed with the shutters firmly closed. While the aura was slowly disappearing from my sight, I felt light-headed and quickly slipped into a deep sleep. I dreamt of Platanos, of walking through dry fields with the peaks of the Taygetos ahead of me. I passed an old stone house; walls, with the roof caved in, the floors inside collapsed into the basement and a smell of rank vegetation.
Under the lintel of the front doorway I saw a handsome old man, with thick grey hair and a beard, dressed in black. He walked from the house, through long grass, heading towards a distant field. Then he stopped and called to me by name, over and over. I ignored him. He beckoned me with an outstretched arm. The more I ignored him the more urgent his look, as if I were in danger. I had a notion that it was Kieran, as he might have been as an old man, but I wouldn’t follow him. As I got to the doorway, the walls began to wobble and stones came loose, raining down on me. Still the old guy called me, over and over …
I woke up startled, with the sensation of not knowing if I was still asleep or awake, my name still ringing in my ears. Villa Anemos seemed to be moving as well, as if someone had picked it up and given it a good shake. The bed was rocking and as I lay, staring wide-eyed around me, I heard an eerie noise, like wind moaning through the house, as if it had been invaded by a poltergeist. Then it stopped and all was silent. A few moments later I heard a tapping noise and Angus’s face appeared as he pushed the door open.
“Are you awake, pet?”
“Yes, come in.”
He sat on the end of the bed. “We’ve had an earth tremor.”
“Was that what it was? I thought it was part of a strange dream I was having.” I didn’t tell him I may have dreamt about Kieran as an old man − a disturbing vision of things that might have been.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Angus said. “I was in the study when it happened. We’ve had these tremors all through the summer. Some people say it’s a good sign that the earth is kind of letting off steam. But I always think it’s an indicator of worse to come. It’s made a right mess of the bathroom.”
“What do you mean?”
“The floor tiles have buckled. Half of them are broken. It’s a bloody mess in there. I’ll have to let Leonidas know. Don’t get up if you’re still tired. I’ll tidy up in the bathroom. That’s why you had the migraine. I always think you can sense when a tremor’s on the way. It’s odd, hard to explain.”
On Saturday, Leonidas arrived in the morning with a tiler to look at the bathroom floor. We had cleared away the broken tiles, leaving a large space with the concrete exposed.
Leonidas was full of apologies. “I am sorry, my friends, you have to put up with this,” he said.
“You can’t be blamed for the earthquake, Leo,” said Angus.
“Well yes, but those tiles were very old. But do not worry, Petros here will be able to fix this. He has plenty of tiles to match the old ones for now. Later on I will have the whole bathroom redone. It’s time.”
Angus shot me a look of irritation. I knew that he would rather have his ponytail cut off than put up with renovation faff.
“This job will take a few hours maybe and will be noisy and dusty. Are you both planning to go out for a while?” Leonidas asked.
“We are now,” said Angus, but without rancour. He looked at me. “Do you want to go down to the beach for a swim, Bronte?”
The idea was very appealing. I had been tormenting myself over another swim, but before I could say anything, Leonidas butted in.
“You are both welcome to come to my house, if you like. You can swim in the pool. I am just there doing some little repairs. It’s very quiet. Please be my guest. I feel very bad for your trouble here.”
Angus shot me a look, and I could tell he didn’t want to go, but didn’t want to insult Leonidas. I didn’t find the idea very appealing either, for all kinds of reasons, but I did like the idea of having a look at the villa close up.
“You go to Leo’s house, Bronte, and you can interview him for your story,” he said, flicking his eyebrows up provocatively. I ignored the gesture, but the idea of the interview was good, as I needed a lot more material for the feature.
“Do you have time for that, Leonidas?” I asked him.
“Of course, Bronte. But what story?”
I explained about my extra three weeks and the trade-off.
“Well done. More time to discover our region. And you can swim afterwards, if you like.”
“Okay. I’ll just get my things.” I went to my room and collected my bag with the notebook inside and my camera. I brushed my hair and tidied myself up a bit, but not too much. However, I had no intention of swimming when the only costume I’d brought was an unflattering black one-piece, which was okay for swimming with your father in the sea, but not at Leonidas’s house. I could do without that embarrassment. I would have to buy something more appropriate soon, if swimming invitations were to be a regular occurrence. When I was ready, Leonidas walked ahead of me. At the front door I turned to wave to Angus and he winked at me.
“You are a wicked man,” I said softly, shaking my finger at him. He just laughed.
A pathway at the side of Leonidas’s house led to a stout wooden gate, which opened onto the lower back patio, where the pool was. It was quite a large pool, the water crystal clear and sparkling in the sun. There were very smart loungers beside it and a table with a large canvas umbrella spiked into the middle.
“We can sit here and talk. Can I offer you a drink − coffee, a frappé? I have a small studio with a kitchen down here. It won’t take a minute.”
“A frappé then, thanks.”
A small studio as well? Very nice! I thought. The house was traditional in style, with thick stone walls that had obviously been repointed and smoothed. The old wooden shutters were pale blue. It was elegant. The floor above had a wide balcony, with a low stone wall around it. He returned with two frappés on a tray and mercifully no volcanic biscuits or pastries. Leonidas put up the umbrella over the table to cut the glare. It was pleasant here, with the same lovely view that we had, except that his gardens were lush with fruit trees and shrubs, and it had a more serene ambience, apart from the moments when Myrto’s donkey started braying in the distance, followed by a barrage of loud Greek curses.
Leonidas rolled his eyes. “I cannot ever forget, Bronte, that I am in the middle of a Greek village when Myrto starts to fight with the donkey. And it has a temper to match hers. She used to ride him around the village, but one day he was in a very bad mood and stopped suddenly. She fell off and broke her wrist.”
“Why does she keep it then?”
He shrugged comically, with his shoulders near his ears. It was a dismissive gesture. “Maybe it is for the company. And he carries things about for her. He is useful.”
I mulled over what Myrto had told me: that Leonidas would probably be happier if she wasn’t there. It did seem that way, or maybe there was a lot more to it. A journalist likes to see both sides. Currently, I could only see hers.
“So, what is this story about exactly?” he asked.
“I’m writing a piece for my newspaper about the Greek crisis. I wondered if you could talk me through some of the excellent points you raised recently in Kalamata about the ailing health system.”
He was cautious at first, and insisted I didn’t use his name in the article. He talked for quite a while, but not hurriedly, giving me time to keep up with my shorthand and drink my frappé. He gave me great information as he had before, but embellished it with even more details about drugs shortages, hospitals running out of money, people dying from common complaints because they couldn’t access treatment quickly enough. It was all distressing stuff, but it would be good copy for Crayton. I had more than enough material and yet I wanted
something a bit more personal, candid. I was thinking about what Elpida had recently told me.
“You told me once before that many Greek doctors are leaving now to take up jobs overseas. You implied you might be tempted to do the same. How do you feel about that now?” He was holding on to the handle of the frappé glass, twisting it around. He seemed uncomfortable.
“I admit it is very appealing, but I can’t say for sure yet. It’s a big step.” He looked away.
What was wrong with this guy? Why so much dithering? I thought.
“You really can’t decide whether to move to England? And with your girlfriend there as well?” I said, looking straight into his eyes. I hoped that might pin him down, finally.
He pushed the frappé glass away and lowered his voice, as if someone were within earshot. “Okay, I will tell you this, but it’s strictly between us – please. As you will have found out already, in a Greek village even the trees have ears.”
I smiled. Was it just Elpida’s ears he was worried about?
“I have a plan to move to England with Phaedra. I have applied for a position in some medical centres in the south of the country. I am very sure I would get one of these, but it’s not confirmed yet. Phaedra has gone first, as you know. She is settled now, I think. For me it would take longer. I have an ex-wife in Athens and a son. Apollo is just eight. I will not see so much of him if I go to England so, for this reason, I am wanting to be very sure about this move.”
“I can see that would be a problem, with your son,” I said, chewing the end of my pen and beginning to think that Elpida hadn’t quite got the story right. Or perhaps he was just procrastinating for reasons only he seemed to grasp. “But if you don’t go in the end, how will your girlfriend feel? What will she do?”
“I don’t know,” he said, daintily scraping his perfect top teeth over his bottom lip. “Perhaps she will want to come back, or perhaps she will choose England over me.” His eyes flickered towards me, with a hint of dark confusion. As if she would, I thought, but I said nothing.
A Saint for the Summer Page 14
