Game of Scones

by Samantha Tonge

  ‘Sure you won’t get bored shopping, whilst I meet my client?’ he said, after I pulled away to carry on washing up.

  I shook my head and quickly turned back to the sink. Damn Niko for making his Greeklish accusations swirl around my head last night. On the way home from the taverna, I’d subtly questioned Henrik about his appointment, but he still said little and talked of meeting a client and not the mayor. Is it possible, that straight-up Henrik would lie to me? Would decimate a nature reserve, despite having a girlfriend who loved and respected wildlife and had done for years? I emptied the washing-up bowl… No. I couldn’t believe it. He probably just assumed I would get bored by hearing the details of his meeting. We were on holiday, after all.

  Grumbling about having to put on a suit and tie in such hot weather, he left the lounge. I took the kitchen rubbish out to the bin that stood on the front porch. In the fresh air, I squinted for a moment, enjoying the warmth and sounds of a Greek summer morning – the honking of geese from a flock flying above and chug of a diesel-smelling engine as a battered car passed.

  It took a while to spot the figure standing by the terracotta pots full of bubblegum-pink flowers. I sucked in my cheeks and shut the door behind me, forcing myself not to admire the cut of blue jeans and snug fit of the short-sleeved checked shirt – nor the casual, confident manner.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Niko removed a long blade of grass from his mouth and held out a plastic bag. ‘Here – borrow Leila’s big floppy red sunhat and matching shawl. Henrik no recognise you then. Stick them in a rucksack until you get to Kos Town.’

  ‘Huh? Look, I told you–’

  ‘Pippa. You think I’ve changed – but inside I’m still your loyal friend. And you may dress fancy, but will always be Tomboy to me – Tomboy who cannot resist a mystery and who fights for the good. I know you’ll accompany Henrik today.’

  ‘Have you gone mad? You and I… we are different people now. Honestly, aren’t I the one who suffers from sunstroke? And you think a giant red hat is discreet? Forget “Pippa”, you may as well call me Poppy.’

  He shook the bag at me, but I simply put the rubbish into the bin, replaced the lid and folded my arms.

  ‘Look… Pippa… You’re angry – about Grandma. Plus I can tell you’re sad about crumbling Taxos. And I think you’re horrified about the idea of the Caretta turtles losing their home. Just like years ago when we found tourist boys abusing stray cats. You took photos and insisted we report them to the police. And remember feeding Grandma’s fresh batch of bread to the baby seagulls we thought looked hungry? I know you still care about things like that.’

  ‘Don’t assume anything about me – especially that I believe your suspicions about ThinkBig.’

  ‘I assume you want to know the truth – like me. Most of the times we got into trouble, when younger, was because we curious people, no? Like us staying out past midnight to find out why empty wine bottles kept appearing in Uncle Demetri’s boat.’

  I couldn’t help returning his smile. We’d stumbled across an amorous local couple who couldn’t find privacy anywhere else, at night.

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but I am going into Kos Town with Henrik – just to shop.’

  Niko stared at me for a moment, then nodded. ‘Still… you suffer from the sun – borrow Leila’s hat. You won’t find a bigger one anywhere.’

  I gazed at him for a few seconds and took it. ‘Okay. Thanks. But won’t Leila need it? Today’s due to be hotter than ever.’

  ‘No – when I called around, she was ill in bed – some sort of, um, insect…’

  ‘Bug, you mean…?’

  ‘Yes. She doesn’t look at all well and won’t get up today. I will drop the hat and shawl back tomorrow.’

  Weird that he wouldn’t call around to check on her that evening, after work. But then, I thought later, as Henrik drove the thirty minute journey to Kos Town, Niko did live just a couple of streets away from Leila – if anything was wrong he could be there within minutes. Unlike my set-up, back in London, with no family or close friends within a twenty mile radius of our Notting Hill apartment. On the plus side, we had cinemas, sports centres, cosmopolitan restaurants and all the designer stores – although I kind of liked the random shops along the seafront of Kos Town.

  After we’d parked, I kissed Henrik goodbye. He had to drop into the ThinkBig offices before his appointment. Firstly, I made my way to the harbour and hoped a stroll by the seafront would clear my head – help me decide just how much I trusted the man I might marry. Instead I just stood and admired the impossibly blue sky and swaying palm trees, well suited to those over-the-top glam music videos Mum watched, from the eighties.

  Eventually, I left the bobbing fishing boats and headed for the shops and markets in the buzzing centre. Mmm, the aroma of squishy honey pastries and coffee smelt much better than sea salt and gutted mackerel. I enjoyed browsing through rails of clothes and ogled jars of shells, sponges and ceramic pots outside an array of gift shops. Boutiques overflowed with scarves, sandals and shawls, whilst souvenir shops sold blue and white painted pottery, fancy olive oils and herbs as well as bottles of jasmine perfume – all of which, my mother would have called “tat”. Plus pushy waiters hovered outside restaurants, trying to attract tourists towards the enticing smells of oregano and garlic.

  I couldn’t be in a place more different to sleepy Taxos and disliked veering around puddles of sick left by drunk tourists who’d enjoyed Kos Town bars the night before. Yet I couldn’t stop staring at cash being exchanged at tills. This was how business should be during the summer months.

  After treating myself to a pair of white roman sandals, I headed back to the seafront and studied the array of different styles of boats in the harbour. My gaze stretched to faraway yachts, their white sails erect, like the predatory fins of giant sharks (thanks again, Steven Spielberg). To my right, at the shore, stood the famous Castle of the Knights… I’d visited it several times as a child, to run amongst the ruins for just a few euros.

  A distant clock chimed – half past one already. By now Henrik could be starting his main course. I’d already spotted The Flamingo Inn back in the town centre – it stood in between two other English pubs that had televisions on, blaring out sport. Was I really going to do this? Spy on the man about to ask me to become his wife?

  Looking for inspiration, I pulled down my own beige sunhat and headed over to the famous Tree of Hippocrates, in a quiet square, opposite the entrance to the castle. A baby in a pram dropped its rattle and I hurried after the mum, to give it back, before returning to the tree. Despite screeching seagulls and chattering tourists, tranquillity washed over me as I gazed at its wide crown, held up by scaffolding. Like many tourist spots in Kos, there was no explanatory notice. I only knew its history because of visiting the island so often. Hundreds of years ago Hippocrates had supposedly taught his students underneath – to think that this man of priniciple, the Father of Medicine, had stood at this exact spot. No doubt this tree could tell many stories.

  Hmm, like the one about the English woman, carrying a large red hat and debating whether to stalk her boyfriend. Aarghh! Henrik, too, was good man, but I felt a duty to the endangered turtles, with their huge heads, horny beaks and thick-skinned flippers. Other children used to throw pebbles at them and call them mutant Ninja turtles after the film. However Niko and I always appreciated their beauty – especially underwater where, despite their cumbersome shape, they cut through the currents like submarines.

  If another nesting ground was decimated they might never recover. I gazed at the tree once more then opened my rucksack. Within minutes I’d swapped my hat for Leila’s and despite the suffocating heat, wrapped the red shawl around my shoulders. I did trust Henrik. At worst he was being forced to close some ill-conceived deal by the bosses at ThinkBig.

  I smoothed down my linen trousers. Now it was almost two o’clock. Either way, it was best that I knew what was going on and could
offer my boyfriend support. If I hurried, I’d just catch them having dessert. A wry smile crossed my face. I felt like a rather flamboyant Miss Marple.

  Mentally thanking Hippocrates for pushing me in the right direction, I headed back into the town centre. Outdoor stalls with a rainbow of flower baskets contrasted the ancient brown buildings all around. The sign outside The Flamingo Inn, bearing a large pink bird, came into view, except so did… I paused outside an office. From the advertising photos in the window, I could tell it was an employment agency.

  Was that Leila inside, being interviewed? I’d recognise that petite frame, the exotic flair for clothes and raven hair swept to the side anywhere. But she was supposed to be ill. Why would she lie to her fiancé? And why would Leila be looking for a job? Niko clearly thought their future was mapped out, working locally in Taxos.

  I looked at my watch. Yes, well, so what – Niko’s love life was nothing to do with me.

  I darted behind the clothes rail of a nearby stall, but still peeked as she stood up and shook the hand of a lady behind the desk. Then she turned around. Hmm. Leila it definitely was. She left the agency, put on sunglasses and headed in the direction of the harbour. Aarggh! Why did I feel obliged to investigate? To see if she was up to something Niko didn’t know about? It would serve him right for flirting behind her back…

  I bit my lip. A small part of me, that I soon shot down, hoped that she was planning to move to another part of Kos. Perhaps with a new boyfriend, yes, and she’d get a job in a bar or restaurant. Maybe she’d been seeing someone else behind his back. My heart fluttered as I imagined her announcing her departure for a new life in a glitzier part of the island, because then Niko would be free to… to… *big sigh* I shook my head. What was I thinking of? She mustn’t leave him – apart from anything else, it would hurt Georgios, Sophia and Grandma. In fact, I owed it to them to try to find out more. And this detective work would be nothing at all, in no way, to do with a ridiculous sense of loyalty to some boy I’d known a lifetime ago.

  I cleared my throat, strode over to the agency and pushed open the glass door, prepared to make up some story about my “friend” – Leila – having lost her purse. However, the small plastic sign on the desk she’d been sitting at gave me all the information I required. “International Recruitment”. Goodness. I hadn’t seen that coming. Was Leila sneaking off abroad?

  Quickly I left the office and stood outside again, perspiring not just because of the outside sun or shawl. Perhaps Leila’s friendliness was all just an act. What if she’d seen the butterfly kisses last Saturday? Not that anything untoward had happened, but she was bound to have been aware of his flirting over the last few months, if I’d noticed within a matter of days. But where would she go? With her good English, Great Britain or the States? And to do what? As far as I knew, she had no formal training… I glanced at my watch again. Niko’s problems would have to wait – at this rate I was about to miss out eavesdropping on Henrik’s lunch date.

  Hands up, no need to tell me I was a hypocrite as I snuck carefully through The Flamingo Inn’s doors. But I’d only chided Niko for eavesdropping the night before as his aim had been to stir up trouble between me and Henrik – whereas I was acting shadily for the sake of endangered turtles. Pulling down the red hat, I surveyed the busy pub, filled with sunburnt holidaymakers, mahogany tables and a huge television to the right. Photos of Churchill, bulldogs and the Queen had been mounted on the walls. Plus to the left of the bar was a snooker table, just behind Henrik who sat with a generously built man with dyed curly black hair and a high forehead glistening with sweat.

  Even sitting down, Henrik was easy to spot. In fact he looked way too big for the small circular table and wooden chair, like one of the giants out of his favourite TV series Game of Thrones. A waitress brought them coffees and she shot my boyfriend a flirtatious glance. Attention from other women used to make me proud, in the beginning, because I was his chosen one, but these days such behaviour didn’t move me at all.

  I hurried to sit on a tall stool at the bar nearby, my back to them, and ordered a mineral water from the landlord in a Union Jack T-shirt. A man, stinking of aftershave, stood next to me, in a black suit. He clicked his fingers at the landlord and I glanced sideways. Eek, it was Henrik’s companion. He turned his head in my direction and gave me a smile full of yellow-stained teeth. He had beady eyes and a crooked nose. Without turning his head away he said, ‘My usual cigar, Jim.’ Then, ‘you English?’ to me.

  Um… no I wasn’t, just in case Henrik heard and recognised my voice.

  ‘Non, je suis francaise,’ I replied, thanks to my French GCSE, praying that he didn’t speak that language.

  ‘Ah, Paris, the city of love,’ he said and leant close. Ew – stale retsina breath. Fortunately, at that moment, the landlord returned with a long, plastic-wrapped cigar. The man slid it into the top pocket of his coat and turned to go.

  ‘That’s six euros please, Stavros.’

  Ah ha. So he was the mayor.

  Stavros turned back to the landlord. ‘So Jim… Tell me, how is your son looking forward to starting at his new school, in September? It’s the best on the island. He was very lucky to get in there, no?’

  ‘Er, yeah, he’s well chuffed.’ The landlord cleared his throat. ‘Cheers for asking. Look, why don’t you have that cigar on the house, mate, for, um, being one of my best customers?’

  Stavros grinned, nodded to me and muttered au revoir.

  Wow. Had I just witnessed proof of the mayor’s corruption? It sounded as if he’d swung a favour for the landlord and expected freebie cigars and goodness knows what else, in return.

  Nah, surely not – thanks to Niko, I’d become over-suspicious. No doubt “Jim” had just been grateful that someone as important as the mayor would take an interest in an expat’s children. And if Stavros had helped Jim’s son get into a smart school, well that was charitable, wasn’t it? Not the action of someone who’d risk the future of endangered turtles.

  ‘Efharisto for lunch, Henrik – us meeting has been productive, no?’ I heard him say behind me. He must have sat down again.

  ‘My pleasure, Stavros,’ said Henrik. ‘And it’s me who should be thanking you.’

  Sitting more upright, I strained to listen – just as a noisy couple collapsed onto the stools next to me and read the menu out loud. Would they have fish and chips? Pizza? Or double cheeseburger? I smiled as they oohed and aahed at the prospect of English food. Anyone would think they’d just suffered years of war food rationing.

  Unfortunately, their loud voices meant I could only pick out odd snippets from the conversation behind me. Stavros said “It’s been hurried through as a favour.” Henrik replied – as Niko had mentioned – by saying that “Pippa must not know yet”. I also heard “Taxos town hall”, “send out the invitations Friday, in the post,” and “shaped like a Caretta turtle – Pippa will like that.”

  A ball of nerves spun in my chest. No… I was imagining things… The two men couldn’t mean… I listened hard again.

  ‘Okay,’ said Stavros. ‘Saturday, midday, in the town hall. All paperwork done… No worry, Henrik. From what you tell me about her, I’m sure Pippa will approve of your proposal and it will all go to plan.’

  Weakly, I beckoned to the landlord and ordered a straight ouzo. Henrik’s mum had got it wrong. Her son wasn’t hoping to get engaged. He was skipping that part and going straight for the wedding. That folder of “work” he’d brought over no doubt contained our birth certificates and all the paper work… Wow. In four days’ time I could be getting married. In Taxos town hall. With all the villagers as guests – and a Caretta turtle shaped cake.

  Chapter Eight

  Did you know that the term Godzilla is a combination of the Japanese words for gorilla and whale? I liked to think “Bridezilla” would represent a cute monkey and graceful dolphin, seeing as my wedding was to be set on this beautiful, sunny island. Because, within the space of a few hours, all my previous i
deas about my dream minimalist wedding day had disintegrated. Gone was the sophisticated white trouser suit – instead I wanted a full-length beach dress with intricate ruffles. And forget the small posy made up of white and cream roses – give me a giant bouquet of Greece’s colourful wild flowers. Plus heart-shaped confetti, a four foot tall cake and cars draped with a mile of white ribbon.

  Hmm. Was that how I should have reacted? Truth be told, I was in shock, now my potential future with Henrik seemed about to become real. I wanted to jump up and down, buy tens of bridal magazines and ring Mum, all bubbly and emotional, but just couldn’t reach that level of excitement. Instead I went on automatic and logically made preparations. First and foremost, yes you’ve guessed it, this involved food, namely scones. Whilst I liked varying the traditional English cream tea recipe, with bright red jam, I’ve always thought nothing would suit a wedding better than that. Although to make them extra special, I’d mix edible gold glitter into the fruit conserve. What a fabulous centre piece on the buffet table they would make. Did they sell clotted cream in Greece?

  As we drove back to Taxos later that afternoon, my stomach fizzed like a bath bomb. Everything now fell into place. My parents must have been staying somewhere secretly in Kos – I’d been surprised when they’d announced their visit to Canada anyway. Mum hadn’t seen her sister for over ten years, so why now?

  And take that folder of “ThinkBig paperwork” Henrik had brought on holiday – it probably contained all the documents we needed to get married abroad. In fact, this now explained why, a couple of weeks ago I couldn’t find my birth certificate. Having finally decided to book driving lessons, I’d unsuccessfully hunted it out, in order to apply for my provisional licence. As for waiting until Saturday for the wedding, that made sense – a friend got married in Athens a few years ago and one of the regulations was that she had to live there for seven days, before the ceremony could go ahead.