The Reluctant Baker (The Greek Village Collection Book 10)

by Sara Alexi

  ‘Let’s use someone we know this time.’ Her voice is softer now. ‘Experience is one thing but I think if we had personally known this boy, he wouldn’t have just up and left without notice.’ She lifts the basket of chips out and gives it a shake before pouring the fizzing potatoes onto the waiting plates. ‘That chicken ready?’ Mitsos springs from his thoughts into action.

  ‘Any ideas?’ Stella asks, pouring lemon sauce over the meat.

  ‘Well, who do we know?’ Mitsos puts sausages on two of the plates. ‘Are you sure Iason’s son will not do it?’

  ‘Sure. You’ve heard he is a strange one. He doesn’t smoke or drink, he will not eat anything fried, and he likes to go to bed when it gets dark. He is not the man to run a bar.’ She turns her head one way then the other, looking for something.

  ‘Where’s the bread?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh, he’s not been yet.’ Mitsos scrapes black bits from the long-pronged grill fork into the bin with the sausage tongs.

  ‘Again! I guess it’s understandable that his heart is no longer into it, though,’ Stella comments and, as if he has heard them, out from the bakery across the road steps Loukas, a basket of bread in his outstretched arms, his weight leaning back as a counter-balance as he takes small steps across the road.

  ‘Yeia sou Stella. Mitsos.’ He takes his load down the side of the grill and lowers it to the floor.

  ‘Yeia sou.’ Stella and Mitsos speak together.

  Chapter 4

  The dull clonks of what Ellie can only presume to be animal bells drift from somewhere, not very far away, distracting her from analysing the phone call. There are many of them, each with a different pitch. The sound is thrilling, somewhere between being almost too perfect to be true and too exciting to take in. She looks for them beyond the hotel lawns, but nothing is visible.

  A couple walk slowly hand in hand to the sun loungers on the beach. A seagull calls overhead as the woman lays down and the man sits on the same sun bed. He unscrews a bottle and pours sunscreen over her shoulders and massages it in, stopping every few seconds to kiss her turned head until finally the woman swivels around to sit up and, with her arms around his neck, they kiss with an intensity that makes Ellie look away. Her stomach grumbles again. She replaces the insubstantial biscuits on the hospitality tray; they are definitely not going to be enough. She needs to do something about breakfast.

  There is a light tap on the door.

  ‘Just a minute.’ She pulls the bed cover straight and smooths her hair with her hand before opening the door.

  ‘Good morning. Did you sleep well?’ It is Sarah, the woman from reception. Why is she here? Why is she knocking on her door?

  Ellie struggles to swallow; her empty stomach turns. Has the hotel found out what happened back home, and do they want her to leave? No, that’s irrational. She is being paranoid. But then again, she justifies herself, that is hardly surprising.

  ‘I don’t start work for another half hour.’ Sarah’s countenance changes from serene to concerned as her eyes dart across Ellie’s face, reading her expression. ‘I haven’t had my breakfast yet. Do you want to…’ She leaves the end of the sentence trailing, her eyes still searching, a slight pucker between her eyebrows.

  Ellie’s laugh of relief comes out half-snort, half-cough, and her shoulders drop. ‘Just a minute.’ She hastens to shut the balcony door and grabs the door key and her bag. ‘I wasn’t sure where breakfast was being served, but I am starving.’ In the daylight, she can see that Sarah is a lot older than she appeared last night, older even than Marcus. But there is also something youthful about her, a fluidity, a grace.

  ‘Well, when you arrived last night, I’ll be honest, you seemed a little nervous.’ Sarah has a hint of an Irish accent. ‘It made me think back to when I was first here in Greece alone. It was a bit daunting the first time I ate out on my own until I got to know people in the village.’

  It all seems a little over friendly. Ellie can feel her natural reserves, her defences rising, but makes an effort to fight through them.

  ‘So, do you live here full time?’ Ellie asks, taking longer steps to keep up. Sarah’s strides are easy, her light, muslin dress flowing with her movement. The carpeted corridor muffles the sound of their feet.

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Sarah sounds excited by her own reply.

  ‘Is your family here?’ Ellie is intrigued.

  ‘No, I came with my husband, but now I am on my own. It’s a long story. Here we are.’ She steps to one side to let Ellie enter first.

  They step into a courtyard in which there are white wooden chairs around white tables with linen tablecloths evenly spaced on the gravel. A circular pond with a small low-level fountain marks the centre of the courtyard, and the stone walls trail with jasmine, bougainvillea, and wisteria. Each table has its own square umbrella to shade it from the sun. Ellie has only seen such places in glossy magazines and television adverts.

  ‘This wasn’t on the website!’ She tries to remain calm, but her excitement is audible.

  ‘No,’ Sarah says, guiding Ellie to the buffet. ‘That was Stella’s idea. She feels that a surprise makes something more exciting.’ It takes a moment for Ellie to connect the name Stella with her welcoming email from the hotel’s owner. When she does, she nods in recognition.

  The food is laid out either side of them, against the hotel wall, and Sarah takes a basket of bread and a bowl of yoghurt to one of the tables. Four of the tables are occupied. There are two couples, a family of four, and a single man.

  ‘Since I started here, there have been lots of surprises left behind the reception desk. Nothing big, but thoughtful, a bowl of figs, a crossword book in English, a novel that an English guest left behind. She’s very considerate.’

  Ellie turns to the food. Laid out are honey, feta, fresh bread, dried figs, yoghurt, and wet slices of watermelon sitting alongside cereals and, at the end, toast on a warming plate. With a plate of figs, feta, and fresh warm bread, she sits opposite Sarah. A gecko runs up the wall behind Sarah’s head, but she pays it no attention. Ellie is fascinated by its flat, circular toes. It makes a loud clicking noise which seems odd for such a small creature. She wonders if they bite.

  The bread tastes as good as it smells, the warmth of it slightly melting the slices of feta cheese. She cannot remember when she savoured anything quite so wonderful.

  ‘The bread’s good, isn’t it?’ Sarah remarks. ‘But this is bread from Saros. Stella orders it with everything else for the kitchen. Wait till you try the bread from the village. That is to die for.’ Sarah takes her bread and scoops up some yoghurt with the stiff crust. The cheese is creamy, with the slightest tang, and Ellie can taste the olive oil in the bread; she cannot imagine it can be improved upon. Only when her plate is half-empty does she stop to talk.

  ‘I suppose you speak fluent Greek?’ she asks, curious to know how someone could make the jump from one country to another.

  ‘My Greek’s appalling,’ Sarah laughs, and a thousand tiny creases by her eyes appear, suggesting that she smiles a lot. ‘So how come you are out here on your own? It’s quite unusual for someone of your age.’ She puts her coffee cup to her lips.

  For some reason, this comment pricks tears into Ellie’s eyes. They do not blink away so she tries to use a napkin, pretending it is for her mouth but whisking it across her eyes.

  ‘Oh I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’ Sarah is quick. She reaches across the table and squeezes Ellie’s hand in a caring, almost motherly gesture.

  ‘No, no, it’s alright.’ Ellie wipes her eyes. ‘It’s been a bit of a year for me. Last year, I was taking my A levels. Now I am married and I am not sure what I am supposed to be doing. I feel caught up in a whirlwind. So, I guess I thought that this break would help me make sense of it all.’

  ‘How sensible,’ Sarah says, pouring them both more coffee.

  It doesn’t feel sensible. It feels irresponsible and a bit silly. What does she really think she can achieve, coming
here?

  ‘I don’t think I was that responsible at your age. How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?’ Sarah continues.

  ‘Nineteen.’ Ellie’s reply is automatic. If she wanted to get away, why didn’t she just go to a youth hostel or a bed and breakfast a bus drive away? Why this big, dramatic show?

  ‘Yes, well, at nineteen, the furthest I had got away from home was the Isle of Man,’ Sarah chuckles, sounding very Irish. ‘And I sure as heck was not on my own.’

  ‘Until coming here, the furthest I had been away from home was Bradford, on the bus,’ Ellie replies.

  ‘Wow! So this really is a big deal for you then?’ Sarah’s voice is soft.

  ‘I think I have made a mistake coming, actually.’

  ‘Ah, you don’t know that. Not yet. Anyway, you’re here now. Best thing is to have your breakfast, allow yourself to acclimatise a little…’

  ‘Buy some cooler clothes,’ Ellie interrupts.

  ‘Buy some new clothes. Good idea!’ Sarah grins.

  ‘Are there any shops near here for that kind of thing?’

  ‘You could go into Saros town. That is only a short taxi ride from here.’ Sarah leans forward and tears off another hunk of bread and wipes the last of the yoghurt off her plate. ‘Or you could go into the village. That’s only a short walk, but the only shop for clothes is Kyria Poppy’s, and she sells an odd assortment.’ Sarah dabs at the corners of her mouth with a napkin and then produces a lipstick. ‘Right, I’d better get to work, if you can call it that.’ She picks up her plate. ‘Go explore; it’s fantastic. And if there is anything I can help you with, let me know.’ Ellie watches the empty doorway for a minute or two after Sarah has gone before she becomes aware of the other people eating breakfast. None of them are looking at her. The children are blowing bubbles through straws into their fresh orange juice. The single man is hidden behind an English tabloid newspaper. How she hated those newspapers.

  Past headlines flash through Ellie’s mind. Some of them blamed her as much as Marcus. The spiralling down of her emotions is a familiar, well-worn trail that drags at the corners of her mouth. At least no one knows her history here. She battles with tears. She has it almost to an art form now: breathe and focus, they will dry up in a second. None of it is happening now. Breathe and focus. She is here in Greece and today she will explore the village and buy new clothes.

  She is not sure if it is excitement or nerves that drys dries her tears as she stands to leave.

  Chapter 5

  On leaving the hotel, Ellie passes across the lawns towards the beach. It is not a long walk to the village and there are several ways she can go, according to Sarah, who recommended either taking the paved road or the path by the sea and then up a dirt track.

  ‘There is a lovely way to walk through the orange and olive groves,’ Sarah enthused, ‘but you might get lost that way, especially starting from the hotel. You’ll find it easily enough on the way back though.’ She will try to find it on her return.

  The sea is nothing like the briny expanse Ellie has seen in England. Here it is alive with reflections of the sun. When she is close to its edge, looking down through the smooth surface, she can see the sandy bottom quite a long way out, the water is so clear.

  Marcus inherited his mother’s house, which is by the sea in England, in Blackpool. That’s where they went for their weekend honeymoon. At the time, the anticipation of the holiday brought back memories of when she and Mum used to go by bus to Blackpool once a year for a week’s break, the week that Father would go to his annual clerical conferences.

  Marcus drove them down, hung over and increasingly sniffing and sneezing as they approached. When they arrived at his mother’s small and rather drab house, he took himself off to bed, leaving her alone. She was disappointed, of course she was disappointed, but also oddly relieved. Wrapping up warm, she left him asleep and set out on the path to the beach. But when she got there, the tide was out and the beach stretched out as far as the eye could see. She couldn’t see the sea, just a huge expanse of wet sand. Her new husband stayed in his bed for the weekend, using box after box of tissues and groaning to himself. So she walked round the town and up and down the promenade in the drizzle by herself. It was not as she imagined a honeymoon would be. The sun came out for a brief hour or two but even then, the sea was still grey and cold looking. It sparkled a bit, but not like it does here.

  Looking up from the water near her toes to the far horizon, the blue is staggering, almost unbelievable.

  Sinking to sit in the soft sand makes it easier to pull and roll at the bottom of her tight jeans, inching them upward, and once they are halfway to her knees, she kicks off her sandals, slings them over her shoulder, and leaps to her feet again. Walking along with her toes in the water, which is surprisingly warm, a sense of freedom begins to seep into her, a connection to nature and a casting off of the world she usually lives in.

  Why has she not come abroad before? Why has she had to wait until now to experience this? All those wet weeks in England, the mist and the cold, when there is this. She stops to look out to sea. She cannot see that this is going to be any part of her future, though. They hardly manage on Marcus’ teachers wage as it is and she dare not eat into her university fund again, just in case things change and it does become possible for her to continue her studies, sit her A levels at the least.

  Besides, Marcus’ idea of a holiday is a weekend pottery workshop. They have been to two already. Originally, the idea excited her; meeting his friends, being part of his life, but the most fun she had at that first weekend was the raku party, which was hardly a party, sitting around drinking homemade wine and stoking a hand-built kiln. There was a bit of excitement when the glowing hot pots were brought out of the kiln with long metal tongs and immersed in sawdust that leapt into flame, or quenched in water that sizzled and hissed, giving off huge clouds of steam. But the thrill of being with older people, being one of them, wore off pretty quickly. All they seemed to do was laze around the fire and chat, drink small amounts of specialist beer, make jokes she could not understand, and fall asleep before midnight. Even Marcus was snoring before she finished brushing her teeth. The second weekend workshop was no better, just more uncomfortable that time.

  But this! With her arms stretched above her head, she pirouettes on her tiptoes, which sink into the wet sand. This is perfect. She makes a conscious effort to impress it onto her mind, etch it into her memory in detail, hang on to it.

  It is easy to see how Sarah came here and stayed. Came here with her husband and stayed alone. That is a bit more difficult to see. Well, Sarah is a different person. She has not come here for that, rather to make sense of everything, put it all together. But how exactly is she planning to do that? Did she just picture herself tanning by a pool and that this change would remarkably happen by itself? It doesn’t sound very probable even if it is possible.

  The track from the beach up to the village starts very straight but soon begins to wander, trailing through olive groves, at one point passing by an old barn made of mud bricks. Outside the doorless opening is a plank propped up on breeze blocks to make a bench. Moving closer, Ellie can see names carved into the wood: dates, love hearts, and notches as if someone has been counting off days. It seems strange to find such a display of life in what appears to be an empty barn. She looks inside. It smells cool and there are sacks of cement and builders sand. A new window frame stands against one wall and a thick wooden door is laid along another. It will make a beautiful cottage here amongst the trees. Someone, one day, will be lucky enough to call such a spot home.

  Outside, the sunlight filters through the leaves and seems bright by comparison and Ellie squints as she makes her way to where the rough path joins a tarmac road that is cracked with weeds growing down its centre. Here she stops to put her sandals back on and watches a line of ants crossing the road and back. How many are killed every time a car passes? And where are they, all those dead ants? Do they take thei
r dead back to their nest? Everything seems fascinating here. She loves to walk on the moors back home. Trail across the heather and bracken, stay out all day if she could, but the cold usually keeps her moving. It is a rare summer’s day indeed that allows her to slow down, lay on the warm peat, and watch the tiny English ants. Here, presumably, there is never a need to hurry to keep out the cold. She can take time to stand still, notice the small things.

  Soon the lane joins a main road, just wide enough for two vehicles to pass. Up ahead are one or two low cottages, whitewashed with tiled roofs and plants in painted pots outside. A woman in black wishes her ‘kalimera’ and stops to lean on her broom to say things in her foreign tongue.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ Ellie explains to the woman.

  ‘Den birazi, ola kala.’ The woman states and continues to brush off the road outside her front gate.

  ‘Bye.’ Ellie trails.

  ‘Yeia sou,’ the woman replies and waves.

  ‘Ya sue,’ Ellie tries.

  She is in the village now, and an old man tips his cap to her as he goes into a shop at the corner of what appears to be the main square.

  ‘Yeia sou,’ he says.

  ‘Ya sue,’ Ellie responds. She likes this.

  A boy on a moped, who cannot be more than ten years old, zips past, nearly running over her toes. He looks back and grins at her. A donkey being led by a bent old lady is sedately clopping up the main road into the square as if it is the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps it is, here.

  Now that she is in the centre of the village, there is so much to take in, she forgets the discomfort of her jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt. A mass of bougainvillaea trails along one wall; a bright coloured canary sings in a cage outside a whitewashed cottage; a dark-haired boy runs along in nothing but shorts, his bare feet slapping on the road’s surface. An Asian-looking man lies on a bench at the far side of the square, one foot dangling on the ground, one arm across his eyes.