by Sara Alexi
The light drained out of the day and still she had not moved from beside the flat stone behind the lemon tree. She heard, from far away, a knocking at the door; it could have been the American doctor, or the donkey man with the groceries, following the instructions Pantelis had issued before he left. At this thought, a second sting shot through her. If he were here, how much more bearable this would be – how much comfort she would take from being in his arms. Together they could face this unbearable event. But Pantelis was not there, and nor had he answered her letter. Even if the letter had not reached him, the American doctor would surely have let him know the tragic news. That was the type of man the American doctor was – good and kind. He would have used the telephone, would he not, as people do in emergencies?
The stars came out and still Poppy sat. The moon rose and her tears finally subsided as the sky blackened, reflecting her mood, but still she did not move – not until a new day lifted over the horizon, bringing with it a chill before the dawn, and then she dragged herself to her feet and stumbled across the terrace, hugging the rough stone wall of the house, and into her room, where she collapsed onto the bed and cried all over again.
Days and nights, nights and days, they became one and the same. When she was so hungry that her body demanded food, she resentfully made her way to the front door, where she found several deliveries had been made. The fresh produce had gone off, of course, and the dried pulses needed soaking and boiling, which was more attention than she could give, so she ate dried bread and a little fruit.
The groceries continued to pile up in the courtyard, often delivered on days when she did not get out of bed. Someone knocked a few times – the doctor, presumably – but she barely even looked up. For a while the whisky provided an answer, and when that ran out she turned to the wine, until that was gone too. The pain was now a numbness, a hard stone that sat in her chest.
It was difficult to move with such a weight inside her, but slowly, eventually, she did. Chores that had been neglected for months began to get done again; layers of dust were taken off wood and the furniture met with a coat of wax again. But it was no longer a joy, and it was certainly not for the love of the place. Something, anything, had to fill her days, and this was the only way she knew to pass the time on her own.
Time did pass, but the hard stone in her chest did not shift, and as she grieved for her lost baby she developed an intense longing for a child and that felt wrong. Because of her, one was dead before it had even taken its first breath. She had no right to more, and she firmly shut the door on those thoughts, along with plenty of others, mostly involving Pantelis, that only caused her pain. Shutting thoughts out of her mind worked well, and as long as she stayed in the house she could shut out the world too.
Twelve months passed, and she had barely seen anyone. The donkey man called out when he delivered the produce and left it in the outer courtyard, but she waited until she could hear the hoofs clopping back down the street before she would open the door, and she rarely saw him.
One day, there was a note from the post office in amongst the produce, telling her that a letter had come for her. It must be from Pantelis; who else would write? But she had no interest in reading it. There was nothing in the world he could say that would redeem him to her, and she made a decision to leave it where it was. Two weeks later, the letter itself came to her with the groceries, along with a quite formal handwritten note from Maria in the post office asking if she was well and apologising for not delivering the letter sooner.
The letter was from America and was indeed in Pantelis’s hand, and Poppy took it inside along with the produce. She put away the goods and washed the few pots she had used for her own breakfast, then set about her daily routine of dusting and polishing. First she swept and polished the guest bedrooms, then the rugs in the hall were taken out and beaten and the floor swept and polished before they were put back. As always, she purposefully strode past Pantelis’s bedroom and continued her work with the brush down the stairs and into the hall and the courtyard. The dust was then removed and the polish applied to all the old wooden furniture in the sitting room and to all the artefacts that Mr and Mrs Kalopolous had collected from around the world: the African mask, the teapot and tea bowls from Japan, a mermaid on a rock from Denmark and many other items whose origin Poppy did not know. These had their order, too – each dusted in turn and put back in place. Finally, the blanket rug from the back of the sofa – the one Pantelis had put around her shoulders that night – was taken outside, given a cursory shake and replaced.
Only then, when all this was done, did she go back into the kitchen to look at the letter.
Chapter 18
The letter faced her, challenging her, invading her space, and as she looked at it something in her core stirred; a part of her that felt as though it had been asleep for a long time began to wake, and it gave her power. For a full year he had been away, and she became aware that it was a full nine months since she had first put herself into self-imposed isolation. With the donkey man delivering the groceries each week there had been no need for her to leave the house, and in working through her loss and her pain she had become a hermit. She, the girl who wasn’t afraid of anything! The only girl she knew who would have been brave enough to take on the responsibility for a large house belonging to foreigners on an island back when she was only nineteen – a hermit!
She stared at the envelope, turning it over in her hands, delaying the moment of actually opening it. What could it possibly say that would excuse his behaviour, his seduction of an innocent girl, and then his silence, which condemned her to endure life’s bitter lessons in isolation? Nothing in those pages could possibly soften her towards him after such callous treatment. No! Whatever the letter said, she would not make his life easy. If it asked her to leave the house she would not – he would have to come himself and remove her. If it said he was returning, then let him return; she would face him, and make him face her. A letter was not enough. If he wanted to bring some sort of conclusion to this phase of his life then he must do it as a decent human being, face to face.
She picked up the letter and ripped it open carelessly, catching the contents so that the writing paper tore as well and needed two hands to keep it together.
She tutted at its formal beginning.
Dear Poppy, it began.
No ‘darling’, no ‘Poppy dearest’ – not even straight ‘Poppy’, which he had taught her was less formal than ‘Dear Poppy’.
Dear Poppy,
The ferry from Athens is booked for the 12th. I trust this will give you time to prepare the house, but then I know you keep it ready at all times. However I thought it courteous to let you know.
It will be pleasant to be on Orino Island again, where I have such fond memories.
Pantelis.
And that was it. Poppy crushed the page in her hand, then let it fall from her fingers back onto the table.
'He has such fond memories, does he?' she snarled, and she took herself outside to hack at the pile of logs in the corner of the garden with the big heavy axe.
She split a few, then sank the axe into the chopping block.
'He can chop his own wood,' she spat. Picking up the letter from the table, she looked at the date at the top and tried to work out when he was coming. She did not even know what day it was, let alone what date. But she had heard the church bells ring the day before, so today must be a Monday. She turned to the newspapers the apples came wrapped in, which were folded, ready to be used as firelighters or to line the wastepaper baskets. The date at the top of one of these is Monday the fifth. The church bells rang yesterday, so that means the twelfth must be today! She has had no warning at all. But then she recalls that there was a note about the letter, and that was two weeks ago. How long had it sat in the post office before that?
'No, no – I need more time!'
She turned first one way and then the other, not sure what to do first. Then she became quite still.
<
br /> 'He has been away a year and I need more time, but what for? I don't think so!'
A hard coldness drew over her. The weight in her chest, a constant presence since her bitter loss, swelled inside her and settled and was almost a comfort. Unlike Pantelis, it had at least been a faithful companion, whilst he had been entirely absent.
'Let him come,' she muttered and, taking the binoculars from their leather case for the first time in over a year, she went to the terrace and waited for the evening ferry to arrive, well aware as she did that his room had not been dusted for a year and the sheets not changed since the last time they shared the bed together.
She had been sitting a while before she saw the ship appear on the horizon. How slowly it travelled when watched. It came closer, grew bigger, until it slowed almost to a standstill at the entrance to the port.
It crept in against the harbour wall and there was a sudden flurry of activity. Lines were thrown and made fast to iron rings set in the quayside. The donkey men jostled for the best position, and the gangplank was wheeled out to meet the ship. Poppy searched the line of people waiting to file out down the gangplank but saw no one who resembled him. She waited as the people filtered out along the harbour’s edge and up the side streets, scattering all over the town. Poppy braced herself for the hate she would feel at the sight of him.
Then, a moment later, he was there, in his white jacket, with a small bag over his shoulder, and despite all that had happened Poppy’s heart leapt and she felt happy he was here. Of course, words still had to be spoken – the way he had behaved was not right – but these things happen to lovers, don’t they? Perhaps they just needed some time together, and for him to be reminded.
She watched as he stepped onto Orino Island and looked about him. He adjusted his trousers and put on the white floppy hat that made him look so much like a tourist and she laughed out loud.
'Well, that will have to go!’ she said to herself.
Then he turned and spoke to someone who was still on the boat and invisible to Poppy. Maybe he had more bags to be taken off. Perhaps he was staying for some time. Poppy’s heart expanded at this thought. She had not felt this light for over a year, and she stood nervously, peering through the binoculars.
As she watched, she saw him reach out an arm, and to her horror a woman stepped into sight, took his hand and tottered down the gangplank.
'It means nothing,' she counselled herself, trying to quell her runaway fears. 'He is a gentleman, and gentlemen do that sort of thing all the time.' And sure enough, once on land the woman was made comfortable on a donkey, her bags strapped to another donkey, and Pantelis began the walk up to the house.
She tracked his progress, catching sight of him and then losing him between the houses. She noted that he stopped to rest more often than he had when he was last here, when it was his habit to walk up and down to the port every day for his paper, but at least he had not given in and taken a donkey.
Now she wished she had cleaned his room, but there was no time, of course. How harsh she had been. Perhaps, given that he kept stopping to rest, she could at least change the sheets in time. After ramming the binoculars hastily into their case, she ran upstairs, pulled clean sheets from the chest in the hall and hurried into his room. As she stripped the bed, her head was filled with blissful memories of the last nights they had spent there together. Maybe he never got her letter, she mused. Perhaps the American doctor was unable to contact him … But he would have come back to witness the birth of his child … Then again, what if he had been ill? He could have been near death all this time, and that would account for his struggle to get up the hill to the house. How she had maligned him! What sort of lover was she to treat him so badly? She owed him a thousand apologies. Hastily, she used the dirty sheets to sweep the dust off the chest of drawers and down the front of the wardrobe. There was no time to clean the windows, of course, but she opened them so that he would not notice, and to air the room.
Then, in a state of panic, she realised she had no food ready for him. She ran downstairs and bundled the sheets behind the door in her bedroom, before rushing to the kitchen, where she scoured the fridge and the larder. She would make kolokithokeftedes and a salad. They would not be ready when he walked through the door, but they could share them at dinner time.
Then she took a breath and looked at herself in the small mirror by the back door. She had not looked in the mirror for – well, she did not know how long. Maybe since the day before she lost her child. She had lost weight, her cheeks looked sunken, and under her eyes there were dark rings. Quickly taking her hair out of its messy knot, she tried to smooth the ends down, but it had become dry and frizzy and her attempts made it look even worse, so she gathered it as best she could and tied it back up.
There was nothing else to do then but wait, and Poppy paced nervously out onto the terrace, and back into the kitchen, where she straightened the tea towel on the back of the chair and tried to stop her hands from fidgeting. And then the key turned in the door.
'Hello?' His voice was music to her, serenading her from the courtyard. It took a great effort not to run to him; after all, she didn’t know what had happened, why he had not come to her in her hour of need. She might still need to make it clear that the way he had behaved was not right. But what if he really had been ill? Hadn’t he said in his letter that he had fond memories of Orino Island? Surely he could not use a word like that to describe the place if he knew what she had been through!
So she ran to the door, but then hesitated, walked, then ran again, then hesitated, as one thought after another flooded her mind. She could hear him in the courtyard and then the sound of his feet on the steps, going back down for something. Perhaps she should wait in the sitting room, to give him a little space and to compose herself. She ran a hand over her apron to flatten out the creases and waited, fiddling with the waistband. Then came the sound of the key in the inner door and it swung open.
'Poppy!' There was no doubting the light in his eyes, the pleasure he experienced at the sight of her, and she adjusted her weight to run into his arms, but something made her hesitate, and he stepped slightly to one side, looking back through the door into the hall.
'Poppy,’ he said formally, ‘I would like you to meet my wife, Monica,' and the woman Poppy had earlier seen getting off the boat stepped through the door, looking groomed and smart. A big, red-lipsticked smile dominated her face, and it took Poppy a whole minute to realise that she was heavily pregnant.
Chapter 19
Relating her story is clearly taking a lot out of Poppy. But at this point, when she recalls the pregnant woman walking through the door, her fatigue seems to increase, and her whole frame seems to sink, and she turns away from Juliet in an attempt to hide the tears that are streaming down her cheeks. Juliet’s instinct is to put her arms around the old woman and comfort her, but Poppy shrinks away from her as she makes a move to do this.
Juliet sits for a while longer but it’s clear that her presence is not what Poppy needs just now.
‘I’ll leave you for a while, shall I?’ she says uncertainly, and Poppy nods her head, still looking away, and gently crying to herself.
'What a rotten son of …' Juliet exhales as she steps into the morning sunlight on the terrace.
'Who is?'
'Oh! You frightened the life out of me – I didn’t know you were here.'
'Didn’t I say I would come to help you?' Miltos puts his feet on the floor to stop the canvas chair swinging. 'So, how is Poppy today? I heard you two talking so I thought I would stay out here.'
'Well, she’s having a difficult time of it.'
'Does she need more painkillers?'
'Oh, no – not that. It’s not the broken bits that are worrying her. No, something else seems to be concerning her, and it sounds … Well, it’s very personal, but let’s just say she has not had an easy life.'
'Well, there are two things I can say about that. First is that it shows. She does n
ot come across as if her life has all been roses and satin. And second, whose life hasn’t been hard?'
He heaves himself out of the chair to stand opposite Juliet. Uncertain as to whether he intends to start where they left off, with a hug, Juliet shifts her weight from one foot to the other and wraps her arms around herself. In response, he folds his arms across his chest, and Juliet is not sure whether it makes her feel safer or leaves her slightly disappointed that he does not embrace her.
'You think everyone has a hard life?' Juliet breaks the silence. 'What about the Queen of England? You can't say she hasn’t had a blessed life.'
Miltos turns to stand beside her and takes a step, inviting her to walk with him.
'Oh, that poor woman, the hardest life of all.' He looks at her as he walks. 'Sure, she has never had to worry about paying bills or where her next meal will come from, but do you know that there is a hill at the end of the garden at Buckingham Palace, which is right in the centre of London, and that apparently she and her sister, when they were young girls, would stand on the top of it to look over the wall at the real people on the streets beyond. They would watch so they could see what fashions they were wearing and – well, just to observe normal people.'
