A Wedding in the Olive Garden

by Leah Fleming

  ‘How’s the little pup you found? I hear he was lost in the bushes,’ Spiro said.

  Griff paused in his packing. ‘Dumped, more like. He’s with the vet in Chania. It was touch and go but he’s tough and will survive. They are keeping him in isolation and building him up. Thanks for asking.’

  ‘Then what’ll happen – he’ll go into the pound?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. He’ll be coming back with me. He deserves a decent home after all the mistreatment he endured.’ Griff shook his head. ‘No one has recognised him yet.’

  Spiro hadn’t much time for pets, especially dogs. Cats were useful enough but dogs were a nuisance, scavenging around bins and dumping fleas everywhere, but the Brits were soft when it came to homing them. It was none of his business and time to get on.

  Once loaded up, Spiro made his way up the hill to the plateia, stopping to hang out the window to chat to men sitting in the cafés on the square while trying to let the smoke out of his driving seat.

  His next building job after his siesta was to help Yannis the mayor put a new roof over the shepherd’s hut. It was a fit habitat for goats or chickens, not humans, but needs must and it needed replastering inside, a basic toilet and a sink to make a very primitive shelter for any itinerant workers. Spiro liked to keep busy. It had taken many months to finish the second storey of his own house but Mel was thrilled to have upstairs bedrooms, a bathroom and a balcony. Now they had private family space with a basement ready to receive his mama should the time come.

  It would be all hands to the pump in the next few days if they were to cater for over two hundred and fifty guests. The women would see to the church flowers and table decorations, the men would set up everything else, including a platform for the performers after the feast.

  On the big island of Crete there were catering companies who saw to all these arrangements but on Santaniki it was a do-it-yourself job, everybody mucking in, arguing, taking offence, storming off but coming back to get stuck in again. That was their way and Spiro liked it. Ari and Ellie deserved their special day. A wedding might only be for a few days but real marriage took much longer to bed down, as he well knew. He wouldn’t swop his Melodia for anyone else. She was his songbird, bearer of his sons. How could a man not be proud to have such a fine woman in his bed?

  Midsummer

  6

  Irini was trying to create an intricate wedding wreath in bread dough but her fingers were not obeying her, even though she had woven it so many times before. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ she shouted in exasperation.

  Mel was busy arranging flowers to decorate the community hall. ‘What is it now?’ She sighed. Irini shook her head but said nothing. There was so much to do and so little time. Irini was tired and fractious and lagging behind in their preparations. We need more hands, Mel thought. Spiro was up at Yannis’s farm preparing the lambs for the feast and he was no use arranging flowers anyway. Then she looked up to see Sara standing in the doorway.

  ‘Do you need a hand?’ Sara offered, sensing the atmosphere.

  ‘I’m no flower arranger. It all looks wonky to me and I have the table flowers to put in jars,’ Mel replied. ‘Are you enjoying your break? We’ve not seen much of you.’

  ‘Give it here, I’ve done a few of these in my time for parties and I gather there’s a big wedding tomorrow. Two weeks gone already. I can’t believe my time’s nearly over here.

  ‘You must watch,’ Irini interrupted. ‘Our traditional weddings are famous the world over. You must see how Cretans do it.’

  ‘Look, now I’m here, let me do the flowers and anything else you need help with. I need to stay in the shade. Look at my legs… like polka dots. I should have taken that warden’s advice and covered up.’ Sara lifted her tanned legs, covered in red blotches.

  ‘You met Griff?’

  Sara reminded her of their encounter. ‘On the first day I arrived. He’s a bit of a know-all.’

  ‘He’s okay,’ Mel replied. ‘He takes his job seriously, a bit of an eco-warrior, widening the scope of the activities on offer up at the retreat with walking tours to see the wildflowers and birdwatching in season. He’s getting full occupancy. He likes his own company except when Don Ford comes over. He’s a best-selling crime writer.’ She paused and winked. ‘You have to admit he is a looker.’

  ‘Don Ford isn’t. I met him on the ferry and once here with his writing students. He likes the ladies though…’ Sara smiled, trying not to scratch her bites.

  ‘You will see them all again at the wedding feast. Everyone is invited. Do come.We’re doing a bit of a turn between courses and then there’ll be Cretan dancing and lyra musicians who will play until dawn. One of the English residents, Dorrie Thorner, has already complained about the noise to the mayor. You’ll meet her and her husband, Norris, the church warden and trustee. Norris is fine in small doses but she’s a pain in the bum and nosy so watch yourself if she starts pumping you. Give her half a chance and she’ll rant on about their own forthcoming wedding of the year. According to her, Daniel, their younger son, is marrying some Russian princess here soon. Not that we’re involved in any way, I gather.’

  Together, they carried on with preparations. Irini’s bread wreath was coming slowly into shape and Sara stood admiring its intricate detail. ‘That’s beautiful,’ she said.

  Irini beamed with pride. ‘My mama showed me many years ago. It is a tradition… bread and salt, we say, pleasure and sorrow, light and shade and friendships for ever. This young couple will be leaving us.’ Irini shook her head. ‘All our children leave the island but when Dr Makaris retires, who knows? Perhaps Ari will return to us with a quiver of children and fill the school. We must make it a special wedding.’

  ‘Now, you must join us for lunch,’ Mel insisted and they sat down to rusks soaked in olive oil and layered with feta, tomatoes and olives, washed down with a jug of village rosé. The taverna was busy with tourists so, without being asked, Sara washed her hands, put on one of the embroidered pinafores and served tables while Mel and Irini went into the kitchen to see to the gigantes – a butter bean stew – prepare mountain greens in oil and lemon juice and a salad of beetroot, garlic and walnuts. Spiro arrived with Yannis for a plate of village sausages, roasted vegetable salad with feta and delicious ice cream plus baklava.

  ‘Time you were off,’ Mel ordered, seeing Sara sweating. ‘We mustn’t impose on you.’

  ‘Nonsense, I’ve enjoyed it.’ She made to go, leaving them to return to the kitchen to sort out the dishwasher and prepare tables for the evening trade, but Mel called her back.

  ‘There’s a crowd from the writing course up at the retreat and Griff sends them down for us to give them dinner. Spiro will be grilling and Irini will see to the boys for me. Don will be holding forth and he’s worth any comedy act. If you feel sociable, come and join everyone.’

  ‘Sounds good… I’ve met most of them before but I’ll enjoy listening to all those wordsmiths.’

  ‘Don will be here all summer, quite a card, drinks like a fish but full of stories. It should be a lively evening with wedding guests arriving from the mainland – could be a long night.’

  Mel watched Sara walking down the hill to Ariadne Blunt’s villa. There was a sadness about the way she walked. Mel wondered why she was holidaying alone and why she was a bit cagey when asked anything personal. All she had gleaned was that Sara was some sort of events manager, whatever that entailed. Mel wondered what her own life would have been had she not met Spiro on the harbour in Chania.

  Going back to Sheffield and her large family of brothers and sisters was always a treat, with pie and pea suppers, fish and chips, browsing the shops, trips out into the green expanses of the Derbyshire Peaks. But since Maria, her Italian mother, had died, she found returning tinged with sadness. She loved to hear the rasp of local voices in the pubs but this was her home now, even though she’d always be an offcomer. Within the community of foreign residents, she had friendship, camaraderie and a bi
t of home. She had the best of both worlds.

  But anyway, tomorrow was going to be hard. Dare she ask Sara to lend a hand?

  7

  Taverna Irini was buzzing when Sara arrived. Mel called her over to meet the crowd from the writer’s course at the retreat. Don Ford greeted her and stood up to find her a chair.

  ‘Hi, I’m Sara,’ she replied, knowing she had not introduced herself to the group before.

  ‘Now where was I?’ he continued. The new writers were all hanging on his words and he was enjoying every minute of it. ‘Ah, yes, book launches… Terrible things. The last one I attended, the author was so squiffy, he fell asleep over his reading and fell off his chair. Not a good ploy for selling his books.’

  Sara had to smile. This was something she knew only too well from the conferences where the speaker was half cut; the party where the birthday girl threw her drink over her best friend, accusing her of chatting up her boyfriend; or the celebration anniversary where couples argued about the menu, the decorations, the venue, and refused to pay up. Nowt so queer as folk with a skinful of ale in their belly.

  ‘Oh… and there was this famous lady author, who shall be nameless, of course, who read on and on until her audience was asleep. I think she was the one who used her uncashed royalty cheques as bookmarks.’ Don could hold his audience, Sara thought. ‘Then there are book signings, another waste of time unless you are famous. Alas, no one has ever queued around the block for any of my events. You sit for two hours to sign three books, if you are lucky, unless you rent a crowd of friends and relatives to give the place a buzz. Am I cynical, yes, I am. It’s all a waste of good writing time. There’s such a lot of flummery about the book trade. Look on Twitter and Facebook, all these minor authors flashing their selfies and goods online, trying to call themselves bestsellers when they are not. If you want to write what’s on trend in the current market, beware. By the time you are published the market will have moved on to the new best thing. Write from your heart, write what burns inside you, write to please yourself. But enough, let’s get down to the real business of the evening. Landlord, pass the flowing ale,’ he ordered. ‘And look who’s here. Griff, old boy – what have you there?’

  Griff was carrying a bundle in his arms like a newborn baby.

  ‘So you’re back with the latest addition to the retreat.’ Don pointed to the bundle.

  ‘This is Spartacus. I owe Don a drink for rescuing this little chap from the scrub. Here, you hold him.’

  Don shook his head. ‘I can’t… I never told you I’m allergic to animal fur, got red eyes and itches and fleas after holding him in my shirt. He’s looking much better already.’

  ‘Now he tells me,’ Griff laughed and seeing Sara nodded. ‘What do you think?’

  Sara stroked the little dog. ‘What sort is he?’

  ‘Who knows: a mongrel? Once his fur grows back, I think he will be a fluff ball.’

  She could see how tenderly he held the pooch. ‘I like his name. Spartacus, the rebel slave?’

  ‘Yes, Sparky for short because he held onto life until we found him. Now, what tales has Don been spinning? Don’t believe a word of it.’

  ‘Sit down, Griff, and join us. The first round is on me.’

  ‘No, just came to show you him. He’s still not able to mix, in case…’ With that, Griff walked back uphill but then paused. ‘Hope you all watch the procession tomorrow. A real Cretan traditional wedding, should be a spectacle.’

  That reminded Sara. She sought out Mel and offered to lend a hand. In the kitchen Mel was looking flustered and shook her head at the offer. ‘Do you really mean this? It’s your holiday. I can’t.’

  ‘I am offering. I can watch the wedding from here and might as well make myself useful. One thing I’ve learned from my own business is that you must be prepared to do everything yourself to a high standard, especially if your traders let you down. Parties are my speciality and I know how hard catering can be.’ Sara hoped that she wasn’t stepping on toes in offering her services. ‘Tell me where I am needed and I’ll be round first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough. We are short-handed with Irini getting so tired, and Spiro will be busy with the taxi so I owe you one.’

  ‘Us Yorkshire lasses stick together in a crisis, don’t you think?’

  Mel gave her a hug. ‘Thank you… I can see we’re going to get along fine.’

  *

  Next morning Sara woke with a thick head after the night’s carousing with Don and his gang. She could hear bells ringing out as she jumped into the shower to freshen up. Days of her own company were boring, too much time to brood over things back home, wondering if she had done the right thing. It would be good to be busy and part of a wedding event, if only in the back kitchen.

  From the taverna she watched the procession of the bride, her father and family dressed in traditional Cretan costume. The girl wore a long red skirt with a beautiful embroidered apron, a white blouse, a black bolero encrusted with gold embroidery and a chain of golden coins hanging from her neck. She wore long white pantaloons under a red skirt with a cummerbund around her waist. Her headdress of white lace glistened in her Titian hair. Her brothers wore white boots, dark blue vraka trousers, white shirts, dark waistcoats and lace bandanas round their heads. Villagers and guests followed them all to the church. It brought tears to Sara’s eyes. There was nothing tacky about this ancient procession. It belonged to a different time and another world. The couple had already registered at a brief civil ceremony at the little town hall where the mayor wished them well. The real marriage ceremony was now taking place with all the rituals of the Greek Orthodox Church, candles, chanting, in view of golden icons. For a while the village fell silent as the service continued at length.

  ‘At last, they’re coming,’ shouted Irini in her new grey spotted crimplene dress from the church steps, admiring the bride and groom pausing for photographs and the doctor’s wife Caliope in a gold lame dress with her hair coiled around her head. ‘Ela! Come, boys, and let’s join the procession.’ No tiredness was going to stop her, and the boys in their finery held her hand to guide her.

  From her vantage point Sara could hear the horns tooting greetings. By this time the feast was prepared for the bride and groom. The young waiters began to fill the table with pilafi, chicken rice salads and sausages. Sara had never seen so much food at a wedding – it made the formal wedding breakfast in England look meagre – but the festivities would go on into the evening.

  After a while, Mel changed into a pretty lilac dress to join her local friends Pippa and Duke to sing a few items. Sara couldn’t believe Mel’s voice, crooning in a 1940’s style while guests chatted loudly in the background. Then the party really began when the bride changed into her party gown. It was frothy layers of silky fabric with a strapless bodice, her hair falling down almost to her waist, encircled in a circlet of flowers. Then Spiro’s troupe of traditional dancers began their routines, dancing the pentozali, the syrtos and chaniotis, centuries-old traditional moves, danced by the men ever faster with great leaps in the air.

  Sara was busy behind the scenes listening to the cheers, her feet tapping to the music. She was happy to stay in the background with the other helpers. Their Greek dialect was too fast for her to follow but they smiled and welcomed her into the chaos in the kitchen with stacks of plates to be washed.

  Still the food kept coming; cream pies, bowls of fruit, nut pastries dripping with honey and those delicate little swirls of crispy meringue that were served at every wedding. The lyra players played on and on and the Tannoy system relayed the music across the island so no one would sleep tonight.

  Ari and Ellie danced together and the guests joined in before they made their farewell. A striped red, black and gold sack was passed around until it bulged with envelopes and notes. Mel explained the custom was to donate at least as many euros as to cover the cost of their meal but many gave much more to set the couple up in their new home.

>   Then the guns were rattling off as the bride and groom were taxied to their bridal room for the night, cars following, honking horns. It was a raucous joyful Cretan celebration that made the discreet disco party back home very tame in comparison.

  Later, far into the early hours, Sara sat with Mel watching the night turn into dawn, sipping the dregs of some leftover fizz. ‘Where did you learn to sing like that?’

  ‘At my mother’s knee, God rest her soul. She was Italian and you know how they love to sing. I had a little training too,’ Mel replied. ‘Did you enjoy the day?’

  ‘I thought it was wonderful. This is the perfect setting for a wedding, isn’t it? If only…’ Sara hesitated. ‘Wouldn’t it be good if British brides could experience a little of this?’

  Mel smiled. ‘I suppose so but it wouldn’t work, not the Cretan way.’

  ‘No, of course not, but if they could come and enjoy the setting, feast under the stars, dance and sing and enjoy a holiday too, wouldn’t it be good for tourism? Santaniki is such a fabulous setting.’

  Mel was half asleep. ‘A dream wedding under the Cretan sun,’ she whispered. ‘Time to hit the sack.’

  Sara rose to walk back as the dawn was rising with a glorious orange lavender light. ‘A dream wedding under the Cretan sun…’ She fell asleep on the sofa still dressed, dreaming of a jetty with an arch of flowers where a bride in a rose petal dress, and a faceless man in a white shirt and linen shorts, were looking out over the turquoise sea as the waves lapped on the shore.

  Sara woke, realising she had been here nearly three weeks. The time was slipping away so quickly and she must turn her mind to home, to her business, to the real world, but that strange dream haunted her, still fresh in her mind’s eye, as she rose, stiff, crumpled and sweating.