As a child, she had bouts of longing for a father. Sometimes she hung around the playground to watch her friends being dropped off at the school gate. Some would give their dads a peck on the cheek, or a quick hug. Older girls would rush from the car, embarrassed to be with a parent. They didn’t realise how lucky they were.
Poppy often glanced at the empty kitchen chair, or stared vacantly with a smile on her lips. Ashamed to have thought nothing of it, Angie now realised some of her mother’s loneliness.
When she returned home, she would stop taking Poppy for granted. The time had come to spoil her mother, for Angie to show her appreciation for all the care and attention she had received over the years. First, she would phone the local florist and have a nice bunch of flowers delivered on the first of each month. She smiled, satisfied with the plan.
Then she remembered: Poppy was prone to hay fever, and Angie, being newly jobless, had cut up her credit card in a fit of self-righteousness. Still, she’d make it up to her mother somehow. She had to.
Steep cement steps rose to simple rectangular grey marble tombs decorated with gaudy bunches of silk or plastic flowers. Despite an urge to read the inscriptions, Angie couldn’t muster the energy. Overwhelmed by a desire to speak to Nick, she decided to return to Viannos and call him.
She closed her eyes and remembered his handsome face, when he held her at the airport. As he stood, looking down at her, she knew he was remembering their night of love making.
‘Will you miss me?’ he asked, placing a finger under her chin and tilting her face.
‘Not at all,’ she replied, smiling. ‘Forgetting you already.’
Laughing, he hugged her, lifting her off her feet.
‘In fact, who the hell are you?’ she continued, teasing him. ‘Never mind. Kiss me, handsome stranger.’
He did, laughing. ‘Stay safe, Angie. You know I love you.’ Then he embraced her, full of love and tenderness.
Oh, Nick.
*
The moment Angie saw her hire car, the flat tyre registered. Because of siesta time, the road lay deserted. Could she change the wheel herself? She imagined Nick’s disbelief when she told him she’d done it on her own. The thought lifted her spirits, and gave her the confidence to get on with the job.
She lectured herself: if a woman can’t change a tyre, without breaking a nail or making a fuss, at the age of thirty-seven, then she had absolutely no right to yelp about equality – had she? After all, she told herself, you didn’t need a penis to change a tyre, you needed a wheel nut spanner and a jack.
Angie opened the boot, hauled out the spare, and winced when she felt a nail snap to the quick. She glanced around.
A lace curtain fell and a cottage door closed. A bent and aged woman in black shuffled down the street, pulling a fat sheep on a rope with two lambs skipping around its rear. The stranger stopped by the rosemary bush and pulled the sheep in close.
‘You want help?’ she rasped. The lambs took advantage of the stilled ewe, butting her udder and suckling.
The woman looked older than Maria. Angie smiled and whacked the stubborn wheel spanner with a lump of rock. As the nut gave way and the spanner clattered to the road she said, ‘Thanks, but I can manage.’
A door across the street opened and a heavy, middle-aged woman, also in black, hauled a kitchen chair out and plonked herself in it. In a few minutes, a small crowd of elderly females had gathered, keeping their distance but watching with an expression of wonder and admiration. When Angie had the new wheel in place, and the wheel nuts hand-tight, she lowered the jack and finished the job with a last turn of the spanner. Mission accomplished.
One of the old dears handed her a small water bottle. After thanking her, Angie unscrewed the cap and took a well needed glug. Too late, she realised it was raki. She swallowed and coughed. The women laughed, slapping their thighs and nodding.
Another pensioner brought her cold water in a glass, another, a bottle of olive oil, and yet another, half a dozen fresh eggs splattered with chicken shit.
Touched, and humbled by their kindness, Angie placed the gifts on the car bonnet before rolling the flat tyre towards the boot of the car. A shout made her look up the road where she saw Demitri, rushing in her direction.
‘Wait, Angelika, I’ll do it.’
‘Yeah, right, typical man!’ she said, throwing a grin. ‘Too late, Demitri, I’ve done the job myself.’
He stared at the wheel and then at her. ‘Alone? You changed the tyre, you, without help?’
‘Well, no, actually these kind ladies lifted the car while I got the punctured one off and the new on,’ Angie said, smiling.
The women nudged each other, grinning. Demitri’s eyes flicked from Angie to the amused matriarchs and then back to her.
‘Are you sure the nuts are tight?’ He reached for the spanner.
‘I’m sure.’ She took the tool from his hands, and passed him the water bottle, glancing at the women.
Demitri took a gulp of raki and spluttered. The old women laughed with Angie.
‘Where can I get the puncture fixed? Do I have to go back to that garage on the Heraklion road?’
Demitri’s head snapped around. ‘You called in there?’ Lifting the wheel, he elbowed her to one side and put it in the boot.
‘I needed petrol,’ Angie said.
‘Avoid that place, they’re mad, pull up at the supermarket and I’ll get it fixed this afternoon.’
‘Thanks. Demitri, do you think I could get a wifi connection at Yiayá’s house? I’d like to videocall my mother before I leave.’
He shrugged. ‘I’ll ask my cousin, he’s the local telephone engineer.’
Angie dropped the wheel at the supermarket and then drove to Viannos to collect her tablet. She smiled to think how great it would be to see her mother and grandmother reunited before she left Crete. With her mood still buoyant, she arrived at Manoli’s kafenion and, in the shade of the big tree, she relaxed.
‘Hello, lady, welcome back. I believe somebody slashed your tyre, hey?’
Here comes the Manoli interrogation, Angie thought.
‘Don’t start rumours, Manoli. I had a puncture, my own fault for parking by the bins. I’ll have a beer, please.’
Manoli reeled off six brands of lager. ‘What you like?’
Angie chose the only name she recognised. ‘Small beer, small glass, please.’
‘This beer is not Greek, lady. Is German beer,’ Manoli sneered. ‘I call it Angela Merkel beer, is pale, all gas and no good taste. You want, I bring.’ His smile dripped away like melting butter, leaving something rancid.
‘No, sorry, I want a local beer,’ Angie said.
The cartoon grin returned. ‘Okays, you want a large or small beer . . . large glass or small glass? What you like?’
‘I’ll leave it to you. I don’t suppose you have wifi, do you?’ Angie slid the tablet out of her bag.
‘What you think? We are in Europe now. Of course we have wifi,’ Manoli said.
Angie searched for logic in his answer but found none.
Manoli stared at her tablet. ‘Holy Virgin, very nice. How much memory? It takes pictures? You buy in England? How much this cost you?’
‘I wouldn’t know, Manoli. My fiancé bought it for me.’
‘Fiancé?’ He scowled. ‘You put “Manolis” then “e” then “x” for the password. I bring you beer.’
Angie typed in the password, realised what she had entered and giggled. Manolisex. Suddenly, with laughter on her lips and the hot sun on her face, Angie felt that everything would work out. Soon she would discover why Poppy had left the island, what had upset her so much, and how she could fix it. She’d bring her family back together once and for all.
Angie thought about Nick. She recalled their first date. Not a date at all, really. The new boss had just broken up with his partner and had to attend a wedding.
Shortly after he had joined the company, he had slipped into her office and said, ‘Wo
uld you do me the greatest of favours?’
Angie, unable to speak after one glance into those eyes-to-die-for, had nodded far too eagerly.
In the church, he had whispered the first line of Pride and Prejudice, ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.’ She had giggled, noting he happened to be a single man in possession of a good job, which she decided was worth a fortune these days.
She asked if he had read The Hunger Games. He had, and their literary discussion then led them through a range of best sellers and classics, which continued through the main meal and culminated in hushed exchanges through the speeches.
Finally, as the bride and groom cut the cake, they discovered they were both avid Doctor Who fans, and they spent the rest of their night revelling in clips of their favourite episodes.
‘Baker!’
‘No-no, Pertwee!’
Angie realised the sight of Nick’s handsome face on her tablet would have her snivelling. She should phone him instead.
Her mood continued to lift as she keyed his number. His deep, honeyed voice uplifted her, and she could not help grinning as she reassured him everything was fine.
‘Don’t feel you have to do this, Angie. If anyone upsets you, or you want to drop the idea and come home, do it – okay? Promise me, you have my credit card, just buy a ticket at the airport,’ he said. ‘Give me a call and I’ll pick you up at Heathrow. Don’t make me worry.’
‘Nick, you’re so lovely, but please, I’m absolutely fine.’ She recounted events so far, avoiding the massacre, which still lay heavy in her heart. Nick seemed tense, probably overworked and not getting his full eight hours, she thought.
While Angie talked, Manoli returned with her drink and three saucers with little round meatballs, stuffed vine leaves, and a mound of tiny olives.
‘Is from me. Real Cretan mezzé.’ Manoli’s familiar grin radiated.
Angie thanked him and returned her attention to Nick.
‘Who was that?’ he asked, an edge to his voice.
‘Nick, don’t fret! It’s just the kafenion guy, Manoli. He got me a cheap room at his cousin’s place, here in Viannos.’ Sensing his concern, she tried to inject a smile into her voice. ‘I’m having a beer under the biggest tree I’ve ever seen. A thousand years old, can you believe it?’
‘Be careful, sweetheart,’ he said, his voice softening. ‘Remember that old film, Shirley Valentine? Make sure you don’t go anywhere near his brother’s boat!’
Angie giggled. She recalled cosy winter nights when she would lie in Nick’s arms and they would watch old films together. ‘I wish you were here with me, Nick. I miss you.’
A woman’s voice in the background said, ‘Nick, what time would you like –’ The rest of the conversation muted. Angie strained to hear but guessed Nick had his hand over the phone.
‘Who’s in the office with you?’ Angie asked.
‘Nobody.’
‘There is, and her voice sounds familiar. Who is it?’
Nick hesitated, then said, ‘I’ll get back to you. Can you give me a moment?’ to somebody.
‘Sure. I’ll be in my office,’ a woman’s voice spoke. Angie heard the office door close.
‘It’s the transitions manager from Whitekings Judy Peabody,’ he said tensely. ‘Don’t sound so suspicious, Angie. I’m having a hard enough time dealing with this woman, without you implying I’m up to no good. You wouldn’t believe the changes around here. You’re better off out of it, sweetheart, believe me.’
Angie stared at a discarded cigarette butt at her feet. ‘Whitekings . . . but I thought you had that sorted. You’re stressed, Nick. What’s really going on?’ In a flash, the fun was gone. Nick had problems. This harpy from Whitekings was putting him under pressure and Angie wasn’t there for him. She feared he would toss and turn and fret all night, and then be wrecked by the time he had to go to work. He wouldn’t eat breakfast, would worry too much, and make do with crisps and a beer for lunch.
Manoli sidled up asking if she wanted another beer.
‘Please, Manoli, give me a minute,’ Angie pleaded.
‘Nick? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘This trip’s important to you, Angie.’
‘That’s true, it is, but you’re far more important.’
‘I thought, under the circumstances, better if you take your holiday while I’ve still . . . anyway, let’s forget it. Tell me, what are you doing tomorrow?’
‘Hang on. Are you telling me you’re about to lose your job too? Oh my God, Nick! That’s terrible. You must be out of your mind with worry.’
‘I doubt it will come to that, Angie, but it is a time of uncertainty. That’s why I’m working all the hours they want.’
‘I guess I’d better not invite all these people to our wedding,’ she said quietly. ‘If we’re both unemployed, we can’t afford to go crazy on a big razzmatazz affair.’ Let alone afford a baby, she thought. ‘Oh, Nick . . . what about the mortgage?’ she said, regretting it immediately. He didn’t need the added pressure.
‘Angie, calm down. We’ll know one way or the other by the time you get back.’
‘I’m so sorry, darling. I imagine your stress level is high enough, without me adding to it. What an awful situation, I can’t believe it, Nick.’
‘Trust me, Angie. I’m doing everything I can to secure our future.’
‘It’s such a shock. I feel useless. Is there anything I can do, darling?’
‘Just find the answers to your questions and enjoy yourself,’ Nick said.
After the call, Angie stared at her phone. Poor Nick. Everything they’d dreamt of hung in the balance. Their big wedding, their new house, and their baby plans. He must be going through hell all by himself.
‘You don’t like my mezzé? Why you look so sad, lady?’ Manoli put two tiny glasses of raki on the table and then pulled up another chair. Yammas!’ he cried, banging his small glass onto the tin table in the traditional salute. But the rattle sent the tablet sliding, knocking the drink towards her.
Horrified, Angie caught the glass in one hand, before it spilled, and the tablet in the other.
‘Bravo!’ Manoli clicked his fingers in the air. ‘Now tell me, what’s wrong, lady?’
Angie had an irresistible urge to talk. ‘Terrible news, big problems, Manoli. We may have to cancel our wedding, and give up the house we planned to buy.’
‘You see, when you tell somebody, it is not so bad.’
She blinked at him, unable to speak.
‘These things are not a catastrophe. You are a beautiful woman; you have health, friends and family. The rest are dust, not important, and we can fix some of them.’
‘Are you crazy?’ She knocked back the raki, a spark of anger flaring, immediately doused by misery.
Manoli grinned and nodded. ‘I might be crazy; how can I know?’
‘I’ve lost my job, Manoli. Our wedding costs run into thousands. Now, my fiancé may lose his job too, which means we can’t afford to get married.’
‘What is this, afford to get married? Come, get married here. You have more friends here anyway.’
‘I don’t know anybody here.’ She thought about her Facebook friends, the plan to upload her wedding pictures, and then enjoy reading their comments. She also thought of Shelly and Debs, her very best friends. All through Uni, they’d been incredibly close, almost like sisters, sharing everything. Now they met less often, usually for an Indian, Vietnamese, or the latest Nuevo food place. A meal, accompanied by laughter, gossip, and occasionally tears, but always ending with two puddings.
Angie smiled. One thing was sure, wherever she got married, her friends would be there too.
Manoli banged his glass on the table, breaking her thoughts. ‘You are the granddaughter of Kondulakis Maria; everyone in Amiras village is your friend. Because you don’t know them yet, doesn’t mean they don’t know you, doesn’t mean they are not
your very good friends. Get married here.’ His eyes narrowed, he stared at her for a moment as if deciding something then he dived back into the kafenion and returned with the raki bottle.
‘Manoli, coffee!’ someone shouted from a table behind the tree.
‘Go somewhere else, I’m busy,’ he yelled back while refilling Angie’s glass. ‘Lady, when you get married, why you want job? Have babies, they are a big job.’ Manoli frowned for a moment then slapped himself on the forehead, a look of conspiracy in his eyes. ‘Or, work for me. Make coffee for these malákas.’ He waved his arm towards the big tree and its surrounding empty tables.
‘But what will you do if I take your job?’ she asked, the very thought breaking her mood and making her laugh.
‘Me, I have a plan. I am a big businessman.’ He stuck his chest out and did a head waggle. ‘I’ll cut down my olive trees, because malákas co-op pays nothing for the oil, borrow money from the malákas bank and plant photovoltaic panels for solar electricity. I will be rich. A good plan, yes? Everybody’s doing it, even the ones who still owe the bank for the ostrich farms, from ten years ago.’
‘Ostrich farms?’ Angie blinked at him.
‘Yes, malákas Government gave us grants and said we would all get rich quick. To get rich quick is the national sport of Greece. But the malákas Government didn’t mention the malákas giant birds were not as daft as chickens. They scared the shit out of us all and everyone chopped their heads off and ate them. Not the heads, the rest, before they’d even laid an egg or paid any loan money back to the malákas bank.’
Angie started to giggle.
‘You laugh. Is not funny. One of the malákas nearly killed my old aunt who had the job of feeding them for me. I bought two chicks.’ Manoli winced. ‘Okay, perhaps I should not have told my old aunt they were a new type of chicken from Europe. They grew so fast . . .’
Angie laughed. ‘Thanks, Manoli.’ Their eyes met and he nodded knowingly.
As Angie drove back to Amiras, she thought what a great guy Manoli was, cheering her up like that. Nevertheless, she often got the impression he was simply a one man theatre act. Her thoughts returned to Nick and the looming uncertainty about their plans. With a sinking feeling, she wondered what they would do if he lost his job too?
Island of Secrets Page 11
