A Wedding in the Olive Garden

by Leah Fleming

  ‘Mama, when has Melodia got time to sew anything? You keep her feet in the air all day and our boys run her around but still she smiles and sings like a lark.’

  Griff laughed as the two shouted at each other. How different from the muttered sarcastic mumblings of the English when quarrelling politely. He fetched Spiro a beer.

  ‘Get that down you. We have a problem and we don’t know how to explore it with the demos.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘It’s about the bins,’ said Griff.

  ‘And the stray dogs,’ said Simon.

  ‘And don’t forget about the fly-tipping,’ said Duke.

  ‘Who is dipping flies?’ Spiro looked puzzled. They explained about the smell of the dead cats and rats, the flies, dogs abandoned in the hills, dumped from cars and left to fend for themselves.

  ‘Now the dog refuge has closed and it’s illegal to have strays, there are complaints that too many poor creatures are stuck out in full sun. Jules from the dog pound did her best and the vets came over to neuter as many as they could but funds ran out and now the strays are everywhere. I know a couple who are rehoming six at their own expense.’

  ‘But what is this to do with me?’ Spiro replied.

  ‘You are local born and bred. How do we approach the council, the mayor and the authorities to take more control of this?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Spiro, scratching his head. ‘The cats are useful to kill the rats.’

  ‘But there would be fewer rats around if the bins were emptied more. It’s a health issue. Don’t people care?’ said Griff.

  ‘It’s always been like this,’ Spiro replied.

  ‘But if Santaniki wants the tourist business to grow, stinking streets don’t encourage visitors… We have so many comments in the retreat house I feel embarrassed.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘If we write to the authorities here, will you translate and arrange a meeting for us?’

  ‘Okay, I will try but we do not like foreigners interfering.’

  ‘It is the responsibility of the demos to deal with strays, to catch, inject, spay or castrate and then to rehome,’ Simon said. ‘Some of the councillors are responsible, some are not and I know funding is limited. They need a reminder of their duty here. I have been here over twenty years, foreigner I may be, but I care about this place and the poor animals too.’ He was incensed.

  ‘Then perhaps you try for election then you can have your say.’ Spiro was on the defensive.

  Time to lay off him. ‘Point taken,’ said Griff. ‘No offence… but we have to flag it up. If we put up posters would that help?’

  ‘Don’t ask me, just do it… Sorry, I must go help Mama.’ Spiro stood up, carrying his boots into the kitchen.

  ‘Have we offended him?’ Duke asked.

  ‘Don’t know, it’s at times like this I feel a great gulf between our opinions and the local culture,’ said Simon. ‘They are the hardest working people I know with the closest of family ties, the most hospitable and generous folk but when it comes to this they turn a blind eye. What can we do to stir up some action?’

  Griff was not to be disheartened. ‘I could shame them with pictures of Spartacus when I found him in the hills and how he looks now. We could ask if they will fund another vet to come over and do a health check, if necessary out of our own pockets?’ he suggested.

  ‘But maybe it’s not the culture to have man bits cut off,’ Duke added.

  ‘Spartacus could tell them the benefits of it though. For many here, a working dog is a tool, expendable, and when old they are shot; and as for the puppies and kittens, they are just a nuisance and fed by tourists in the cafés. Perhaps we could start a campaign, better than doing nothing.’ Griff concluded, ‘Guys, I think we have gone off piste re the bins issues but we’ve now got some good ideas to meet again with something concrete. I have photographs of Spartacus when I picked him up. Simon can do the text for a poster. Duke, perhaps you can distribute some in Greek and English?’

  Griff walked home, glad to get these concerns off his chest, hoping he was not alone in this campaign. Maybe other expats could make locals see the benefits all round of clean bins and less strays because more tourists meant more money in the bank for everyone in the town. Short hands and deep pockets wouldn’t do but a little bit of fundraising, information and compassion might win the day. Spartacus’s adventures would make a good shaggy dog story.

  15

  Sara strolled up to the plateia in her denim shorts and flip-flops. The square was packed with vans and men chucking grapes into what looked like a cement mixer. There was a large communal tank into which the mash was being tipped. This was the modern way of harvesting the juice but Mel said they were going to do it the traditional way.

  ‘Come around the back into the garden.’ Here there was a large open space with a stone threshing wheel circle used as a sitting area, and to the side a stone pit where Katya and the two student waitresses were bouncing up and down in a sort of well that was full of grapes. They were holding hands and dancing, having fun, while Irini and Spiro and the boys were emptying more baskets of russet fruit. Raw juice was pouring from a channel into plastic containers. It looked a brown muddy mess.

  ‘It’s your turn now,’ Irini said, pointing to the grapes. ‘Don’t look like that, you’ll enjoy it and it’s better than ten thousand steps to fitness. You will do well. You have big feet…’

  Sara was trying to stifle a giggle, big feet indeed, as she climbed into the patitiri. She’d show them. Mel and her boys were now squishing around, pounding the fruit with bare feet.

  She felt the strange sensation of mush between her toes and she began to march up and down. It was fun. ‘What happens to the mash – does it go like manure onto the field?’ she asked.

  ‘Good lord, no,’ Mel shouted. ‘Nothing is wasted. When the juice runs out, the skins are left to ferment into tsikoudia, raki… moonshine to you and me. The vine leaves, you know we use them to wrap dolmades. It’s the same with the olive trees – when the branches are pruned, the wood goes to heat the fire or for wood sculpture.’

  ‘It makes better village wine doing it the old way.’ Irini pointed to the plastic barrels. ‘We let the juice stand and some goes into oak barrels…special,’ she smiled, touching her lips. Sara had tasted the end product – some was like thin sherry, the rest she could take or leave – but said nothing. She looked around at the boys still pounding away.

  ‘You wouldn’t do this in Sheffield,’ Mel yelled and Sara laughed.

  ‘If they could see me now in Sheffield, Health and Safety would have a fit,’ she replied, knowing her own sweating feet were part of the harvest. This year’s harvest she would have to taste and as for the raki, the white spirt that burnt her throat when it was offered in tiny glasses as a digestive treat at the end of every supper, she was getting a taste for that. Heaven only knew what its alcohol level was. Griff told her it was used on insect bites and wounds. She hoped she wouldn’t have to try that remedy.

  ‘Hose down your legs and then we eat.’ Irini pointed to a trestle table with a white cloth and plates. ‘It is thirsty work, come… all is prepared.’ There was a huge pilafi dish, salads and a plate of courgettes in thin batter that Sara demolished with gusto. How did they do all this, serve tables in the taverna, crush grapes and now this feast for the eyes as well as the taste buds? The colours of the island were in their dishes: reds, greens, colours of the rainbow. No wonder the old folk here lived to a ripe old age, with no chips and booze.

  When she stood up, her muscles were aching, but she wouldn’t have missed this tradition. Going to Chania with the girls, meeting Mel’s friend Della for an evening on the lash by Chania harbour was magic. Now the wedding to prepare for made her feel she was part of the community. The only thing lacking was her Greek. If she was to stay here, she must make an effort, hard as it was, and not keep relying on Mel and Spiro to translate. Perhaps in the winter she would join a class to b
olster the little language she had. Sara didn’t want to be one of those foreign residents who never bothered to learn a word. Why should the locals have to speak English all the time? No, she must take herself in hand. She owed St Nick’s so much, it was the least she could do.

  *

  Jack and Sandra from ‘the Bunker’ sat in the taverna looking at the poster of a scruffy, skinny dog sunk in a rubbish bin with the title: It’s a dog’s life… No home, no food, feeling sick. Surely there is another way?

  ‘It’s enough to put one off one’s dinner,’ said a scruffy old Greek man in the corner.

  ‘But it’s true,’ Jack replied. ‘There are strays everywhere.’

  ‘Then let them get put down,’ came the reply.

  ‘They can’t help being chucked out or dumped or breeding like rabbits.’ Sandra felt sorry for the poor mutt in the picture. ‘Whose doing was this?’ she asked Mel who shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Not sure, but it’s long overdue… Stavros, it’s time you went home. I need your chair and your smoke is stinking out the tables.’

  The man shuffled off muttering to himself, gesturing defiance in Mel’s direction.

  Irini had other ideas. ‘It’s the English interfering again. They should look in their own corner. Here we care for our family when they get old… we do not shove them into homes and visit them once a month. Do they care for animals more than their own flesh and blood?’

  ‘Mama… shush, not all families are like that. My own nonna lived with us for years.’

  ‘You are half Italian,’ came the reply.

  ‘I thought there was a band tonight.’ Sandra changed the subject, knowing it was none of their business to express an opinion.

  ‘Not tonight, our sax player and the guitarist are getting married soon so we’re giving everyone the night off but there’s a big party on Saturday night and you’re more than welcome to join us.’

  Sandra smiled. ‘We’d love to if you’re sure.’ She liked Mel who helped them choose from the menu. They ought to mix more in the English crowd but she got so tired and breathless lately with the chemo pills and that sicky feeling made choosing dishes difficult.

  ‘I thought there was a dog sanctuary somewhere,’ said Jack.

  ‘It had to close due to the authorities not approving and lack of funds. There was not much support. But I hear there’s a new campaign to raise awareness of animal welfare and rehoming them.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ Sandra looked around the taverna. ‘It’s all looking very decorative. I like the stripy bunting.’

  ‘We’re doing it up for the wedding,’ Mel said as she cleared away their plates. ‘It’s going to be a grand do. Pippa and Duke are having a quiet ceremony in the retreat house garden and she’s coming by donkey and cart, if the cantankerous old beast will oblige. Honestly, when we went to look at poor Ajax, it was a scene straight out of Steptoe and Son,’ she whispered with a chuckle. ‘Let’s hope a lick of paint and some flowers will disguise the cart and Katya’s family will give poor Ajax a makeover.’

  ‘We saw the doctor’s wedding procession but this sounds very different.’

  ‘Oh yes, it will definitely be different. Sara Loveday is organising it. She’s setting up wedding packages for visitors from England. It’s a new venture, though she is very experienced in event management in Sheffield.’

  ‘I thought you sounded like us – from up north,’ Sandra said.

  Mel laughed. ‘I’ll never lose my accent.’

  ‘Is this Sara planning parties as well?’ Sandra asked.

  ‘Not really, wedding planning takes up her time. She is busy preparing her new brochure.’

  ‘Really?’ Sandra replied, squirrelling this information away. What a coincidence as she was still thinking of the future. If her treatment went pear-shaped, she wanted some memories to look back on when times were hard; a family gathering if possible. Jack must be provided for. Cohabiting was fine for the young and fit with years ahead of them.

  In her heart she feared her future might not be the full three score years and ten but how to approach Jack to propose to him? He was convinced that everything would be fine but stage four cancer was incurable; treatable yes… Don’t dwell on that, she thought, fixing her smile.

  Mel looked the same age as Julie but with an energy and cheery persona that her daughter had never had. Julie sulked, living in washed-out leggings and faded tops as if she didn’t care for her appearance. Colin didn’t seem to mind what she wore.

  As a child Julie was skinny, full of mischief with a mop of golden curls. ‘Bubbles’, they called her, but bubbly she no longer was. How Sandra longed for that little poppet, piggyback-riding on her dad. Those golden days were long gone and she ached to hold her, to soothe away all the grief that lay like a heavy stone inside her child. Why does she still punish me? she cried into her pillow that night. Why did her daughter shut them out of her life? It had to be sorted once and for all… Would a wedding here help or make it worse?

  *

  Sara was making a long to-do list, check, check, check. Only the weather was now beyond her control but every other detail was, or at least she thought it was until she cornered Duke in the street. ‘I was wondering if you’d organised a ring?’

  He looked nonplussed. ‘Hasn’t Pippa bought one?’ he replied.

  Sara held her hands up in horror, typical man leaving everything to the wife. ‘She shouldn’t have to buy her own ring,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit late now but have you got anything that might do? Do you know her size, even?’ Duke was so laid back, almost horizontal at times, but he needed to make some effort.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a gold signet ring. I think it was my grandad’s but it’s a bit battered. Don’t know why I kept it.’

  ‘It could be altered to her size, refashioned later, but you’ll have to find her size, and soon,’ Sara ordered.

  ‘I’ll root in her trinket box. She has a few bits from her family that she wouldn’t miss if I took one for size.’

  ‘There’s a Danish jeweller up in Sternes village. Mel told me that Chloë Bartlett buys her necklaces from there. She might alter it. Get yourself to Anna’s workshop pronto and see what she can do. Have you got your own outfit sorted?’ She didn’t want Duke turning up in his old tie-dye shirt and cut-off jeans.

  Duke laughed. ‘I’m sorted, something I picked up in my roadie days so don’t worry, I won’t show up in shorts… Bit nervous though. I’ve asked Mel to sing for us. I’ve suggested something as a surprise for Pippa. Griff’s helped me write some words.’

  The civic ceremony was organised for the morning. Their papers were all in order and just Mel, Spiro and Griff had been invited.

  Sara wanted them in the retreat garden checking the decor. There was no yurt available and the gazebo they’d found had seen better days.

  ‘Haven’t we all,’ Griff quipped as they began to disguise the wear and tear with bunting and flowers; the last of the plumbago and the bougainvillea. Sara was up and down to the retreat house so much that Spartacus wagged his tail to greet her as an old friend.

  He was now the star of the ‘Spot the Dog’ campaign, a little competition for schoolchildren to take photos of stray dogs without collars, puppies and cats that had no homes, and give them names. The younger children could draw them and there would be a prize for the best entry.

  ‘Not going to be easy to change minds,’ Griff explained. ‘It’s already caused some controversy among locals.’

  Sara hoped none of this would spoil the party atmosphere. This was to be Pippa and Duke’s big day. The professional photographer from the big island was coming to do some specialised shots she hoped would give a romantic atmosphere. The hair and beauty was all organised. They planned fizz and nibbles on the veranda with more shots after the wedding. It was now up to her to set the table with flowers and greenery. They were expecting Pippa’s friends from the book club, the regulars to the band nights and local residents. Sally the vicar was a fo
unt of information and Sara knew the ceremony was in safe hands.

  This was a good learning curve in this new setting but in its own way nerve-wracking. What if it poured down? What if the locals stayed away because of Griff’s campaign, or the donkey cart fell to bits and Yannis’s boys drove them to the wedding in smelly farmyard shirts?

  Mr and Mrs Thorner declined an invitation on the grounds that they were otherwise engaged. Dorrie was off to London to check her outfit for their own ‘wedding of the year’, but not before sending Sara a note hoping that she wouldn’t make a precedent of using the trust’s garden for alternative nuptials. How they would deal with any same-sex celebrations, heaven alone knew.

  Last, but not least, was the pretty dress she bought almost as an afterthought; a raspberry pink shift with matching shoes and a Thai silk wrap if it turned chilly. Sara did not want to waste the opportunity to give it an outing.

  With Simon and Griff’s help they found a trailer for all the empty water bottles, glass and recyclable waste. As the sun went down Sara stood admiring the olive garden, praying tomorrow would prove to be special for Pippa and Duke’s big day.

  16

  Mel woke Pippa from her deep sleep. She had spent the night in their spare room oblivious to the boys who were out playing football in their back garden. ‘Wakey, wakey, it’s your wedding day,’ she yelled. Duke and Pippa were following tradition by spending the night apart.

  Pippa staggered up from the pillow. ‘Let me lie in…’

  ‘No, we’ve got hair appointments and the civil ceremony will not wait.’ Mel was being bossy but as a sort of matron of honour she felt duty bound to get this show on the road before Sara arrived.

  ‘I feel like a beached whale, the little sod’s kicked me all night. Duke is convinced it will be the next Lionel Messi. I’m happy not to know either way.’

  The morning flew by. Sara had gone to help Griff and his staff to set up the little bower while Mel’s student waitresses prepared everything for the wedding table on the veranda. Spartacus got under everyone’s feet and was banished inside, much to his disgust, where he whined for attention. Don was charged with tidying up but his idea was to flick a duster in the air. The flowers arrived and the weather was set perfect for the day. The wedding party took Spiro’s taxi to the town hall. It was all very low key. Pippa had wanted to save her outfit for the blessing in the olive garden. Mel and Spiro together witnessed the brief formalities before speeding back for the main event. Mel hoped her mother-in-law had kept Markos and Stefan in check in their new clothes.