A Handful of Pebbles

by Sara Alexi

  ‘The food was excellent. Please give my compliments to the chef and thank you for your recommendations. I will only drink local wine from now on!’ Sarah slurs as she looks in the waiter’s eyes. She can see why Liz is flirting with him, such long lashes. A few minutes later, a plate of sliced watermelon appears, as do apple pieces dripping in honey, all with the waiter’s compliments.

  Neville is dripping honey over his lips when a child, not much higher than the table, with matted hair and huge brown eyes and dirty clothes pushes a bunch of individually wrapped red carnations under his nose.

  ‘How much?’ His words slur. The child continues to hold out her hand, unblinking. ‘How much?’ he repeats, but there is no answer. Liz’s eyes grow wide.

  ‘None of them speak English,’ Laurence says, ‘Not here and not in the village.’ He stifles a hiccup. The child is waved away and Sarah watches the trace of a smile on Liz’s lips fade. She is not sure if it was there for the possibility of the gift of a flower or the sight of the young child.

  After the fruit is eaten and belts undone a notch, the bill is called for. It arrives with a carnation, which is presented to Sarah. She raises her eyebrows and the waiter points. Sarah follows his finger past a big American woman, beyond her the villager in the sleeveless dress and behind her is the open window into the taverna. The man is still there. She can see his knees and a hand slowly rotating a string of worry beads.

  ‘Who?’ Laurence asks, his chin jutting forward. Neville is counting out change for the tip. Liz is looking over one shoulder and then jiggling around to look over the other, trying to work out who is the admirer.

  Sarah can feel the heat rising up her neck. She fans the menu to create a breeze, forcing her actions to appear relaxed as she hides her colour.

  ‘Who?’ Laurence repeats, still searching the faces of the customers.

  Liz is mouthing ‘Who?’ with a big grin on her face.

  ‘That is Stella,’ Sarah finally whispers to Laurence loud enough for Liz to overhear, and points. ‘The lady who gave me directions to the house today. She wished me welcome. She was very friendly. I guess it is from her.’ But Stella is engrossed in her own conversation with the one-armed man and does not look their way. Neville chucks a few coins on the table and stands and pulls Liz’s chair out for her. She is unsteady on her feet, and he offers his arm.

  Laurence does the same for Sarah and as they stroll away to find another café to savour a dessert and drink brandies and ouzos until the small hours of the morning, Sarah leans across to Liz and hands her the carnation.

  When Sarah wakes the next morning, the other side of the bed is empty and everything around her is unfamiliar. She uses the toilet in an unknown bathroom and steps out of the bedroom to an unknown hall with a dark wooden staircase. Holding tightly to the rail, she descends to find she is at Liz and Neville’s.

  ‘Morning,’ Neville breezes. ‘Laurence has gone already; he said he had some emails that need his attention. There is pancakes and toast.’ He waves a spatula over a laid-out table.

  ‘Liz?’ Sarah asks.

  ‘Mother of all hangovers. I don’t suppose we’ll see sight of her till this afternoon.’ He chuckles and shrugs as if it is a regular occurrence and Sarah wonders if it is—or has become so since the death of his mother, Liz now free of responsibilities.

  ‘Coffee?’ Neville begins to pour a cup.

  ‘No, no. I’ll just get off. Thank you.’ Nothing will persuade her to have a petite dejeuner for two with Neville. She needs a bath and a change of clothes and he needs to focus on Liz.

  ‘Okay.’ He wipes his hands and pulls off his apron, moving towards her. ‘I’ll drop you.’

  ‘No! No, thank you. It’s a beautiful day and a walk might lift my headache.’ She backs to the patio window before turning and walking away calling, ‘Tell Liz I’ll call.’

  Once through the garden gate, she is in an olive grove where she stops, hangs her head backwards, lets her jaw hang open, and huffs a sigh.

  She could, maybe, draw the walk back out a little. A stolen hour just for herself.

  Chapter 5

  She deserves a worse headache. Already, the throbbing is subsiding, but the sun is piercing and she wishes she had brought her sunglasses.

  The twisted olive trees look timeless, the leaves fluttering silver-blue, and Sarah wonders how many other people have strolled between them, what sort of lives they have led, what sort of love they have given and received. In amongst the trees, goats and sheep nibble at the vegetation which is still green in the shade. Their occasional throaty bleating echoes down to the village.

  Joss is due to arrive today with Pruella de Ville. She giggles with the thought. She has never said it out loud.

  She misses Joss. Of course she misses Joss, but the positive side of him moving to the States is she does not see Prudence very much at all. Joss comes back to visit occasionally, but she cannot even recall the last time she saw Pru. She can remember the first. Joss brought her over from London to the Isle of Man for a weekend. Sarah thought that tea at Tynwald Mills would be a nice day out for Pru, seeing as Laurence had taken Joss off to the golf course.

  ‘What do you think of these?’ Sarah asked, holding up some earrings and looking at herself in the mirror.

  ‘Oh, I can remember a time I would have worn something like that, but then we all go through strange styles in our teens.’ Pru walked away to look at something else.

  Sarah put the earrings back, her hand over her stomach; the undefined dark weight inside her was her companion even back then. To divert her thoughts, she went to look for some gloves for Laurence; goodness knows he needed some. The ones she coveted were sheepskin with the seams on the outside, warm and practical.

  ‘I am thinking of getting these for Laurence.’

  ‘Oh right, yes. I forgot you’re from Ireland, aren’t you,’ Pru replied with a lopsided smile before turning to look at some impossibly high heeled shoes.

  Pru’s comments tipped back the years and Sarah remained motionless, feeling like a young country girl from Ireland, as if she had made no progress in life at all.

  But time has passed since then. Pru’s been promoted and they have moved to New York. Maybe she’s changed. Pru is Joss’s love, and she will treat her kindly and civilly even if such basic manners are not returned.

  ‘Why the sad face?’ The thick accent is both Greek and Australian at the same time. Sarah looks around. Sitting on a rock, chewing on a grass stem, is a familiar stranger. Scanning his face, her brow creases. She knows she knows him but then again, she does not.

  ‘Did I look sad?’ Sarah buys herself a little time, hoping it will come to her. Some sheep eat their way towards them, the grinding of their teeth audible in the silence. She hopes she doesn’t look as bad as she feels. He stands, the width of his chest and the gold chain rushing her memory and before she can stop herself she says, ‘You’ve shaved your moustache off!’

  ‘Is it better, or worse?’ he asks, the fingers of one hand exploring the exposed skin. As no answer is forthcoming, he draws his beads from his pocket and worries at them, still holding her in his gaze. ‘You walking down to the village?’

  There is no other way to go so she nods with a final glance back to the house.

  ‘May I have the pleasure of walking with you?’

  He seems pleasant enough, gentle, easy-going, but you can never be sure. Sarah tries to judge his age. He is no older than her but more solid somehow and, although he has a weather-beaten ruggedness about him, she feels confident that, thanks to her gym sessions, she would be the faster runner if need be. As they begin to walk, she nevertheless keeps her distance, an arm’s reach away, better safe than sorry.

  They silently fall in step, but only for half a minute before he veers off the footworn path and crouches to pull back a spiky bush, revealing buds of colour beneath.

  ‘Wild bee orchids,’ he says, brushing them with his fingertips. The intense purple flower, no bigger tha
n his little fingernail, sings against the surrounding green leaves, and under the petals is a bee-shaped lip patterned in yellow and a very dark red.

  ‘I can see where they get their name from.’ Sarah bends to look more closely, aware of the closing distance between them.

  ‘The plant produces a scent similar to that of the female bee, which attracts the male bee to copulate with it, ensuring pollination.’ He lets the gorse fall and they both straighten.

  Sarah is lost for words; any reply could be awkward. She steps back to the track, saying nothing.

  ‘Greece is a good place for flowers.’ He begins to stroll on. ‘The carnation is another flower that grows very well here.’

  ‘Look ...’ Sarah pauses to consider how she is going to phrase what she needs to say. ‘You obviously want me to say something about the flower last night. I don’t think "thank you" is appropriate, nor honest, as I don’t thank you. With my husband sitting right next to me, it could have been a lot more awkward than it was. And while we are on the subject, I would like you to explain how you knew I would be here today. It makes me wonder if I am safe.’ She widens the gap between them.

  ‘Sorry?’ He chortles and stops walking, his hand raising to his jaw, his fingers rubbing, feeling the stubble.

  ‘Last night, the flower?’

  ‘What flower?’

  She looks him in the face, searching for sincerity, the heat rising on her neck, reaching her cheeks. Maybe it really was Stella. But even if he didn’t give her the flower, it doesn’t explain him lying in wait for her today.

  ‘The flower at the taverna?’ she says.

  ‘Oh, did you get one from the chef?’

  ‘What?’ Sarah replays the events in her head, the waiter’s pointing finger, past the large woman, past Stella, to the window and his knees. But the picture continues through the empty taverna to the kitchen door. ‘The chef?’ It is more of an exhalation than words.

  ‘My guess is you sent him your compliments?’ He is giggling to himself now. ‘Five a night he gives out, keeps people coming back and the restaurant full.’ His smiling eyes seem to mock her, or is she being uncharitable? He begins to stroll on, giving Sarah some space. All she can hear are the goats munching and a rushing in her ears. Her cheeks feel on fire. She watches the sheep gnawing the scant grass back to the soil, the goats, their front feet tapping against the bark as they stretch up the trunks to graze on the tops of bushes and foliage beyond the sheeps’ reach.

  How much easier life must be as a goat: mindless, unaccountable and with no ability to form words and dig themselves into bottomless ditches. Bliss, to roam these hills all day doing nothing but eating. Her stomach rumbles, reminding her that she has not had breakfast.

  He is further along the path, waiting for her. She would rather go back and deal with Neville than face this man now, but to turn and walk away would be to add insult on top of injury. She cannot do it.

  ‘Look.’ He is pointing through a break in the tree branches. She doesn’t quicken her pace. He lowers his hand and waits until she has caught up. ‘Look,’ he repeats, pointing again. Beyond the trees, the fields stretch out across the plain and one burns bright orange, on fire with light.

  ‘Oh my goodness, is it a fire? Should we call the firemen?’ Her hand goes to her throat, her blunders forgotten in view of the potential disaster.

  ‘No, it’s a photovoltaic field.’ He puts both hands in his dark serge farmer’s trousers, his beads clicking in his pocket.

  ‘It’s what?’

  ‘Photovoltaic, solar panels, electricity,’ he summarises. ‘We are just at the right angle to see the sun reflecting off the panels. Impressive, isn’t it? Only at this time of day is it so.’ He sighs contentedly.

  Apart from feeling a little silly that she thought the field was on fire, Sarah is just glad the focus has moved on from her earlier mistake. What an arrogant presumption it must have seemed, but, and the feeling creeps upon her slowly, what is even more disconcerting is the trace of disappointment that the flower last night was not from him.

  ‘So come on.’ He begins walking again. ‘Tell me, why so sad?’

  The change in topics is too quick for her. She cannot recall what she was thinking when he first saw her. The ever-present feeling of weight sometimes in her chest and sometimes in her stomach darkens and nestles deep inside her, hiding from inquiry.

  ‘Am I?’ is all she manages. She cannot deny that something dark sits in the pit of her stomach, making itself known every now and again, but she is not sure she would call it sadness. To be honest, it has been there so long, it just feels like part of her.

  ‘From the first time I saw you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘All I could think was why is a pretty lady so sad?’

  He has a good profile, with a really straight nose, and he just called her pretty. He called her pretty and, somehow, he knew she was going to be here today.

  ‘You are on holiday, yes? So leave your worries. No?’

  ‘I’m here for my younger son’s wedding.’ There it is, that black weight in her stomach again.

  ‘There.’ He points a finger to her face. ‘There is that sad look again.’

  Looking away, she rubs the tightness at her stomach.

  ‘You don’t want him to marry?’

  ‘No, no, not at all. Helena’s lovely, perfect for him. They’re in love.’

  ‘But ...’

  ‘No buts.’

  ‘That’s good then.’ He grins, a wide mouth and so many teeth.

  The track winds around olive trees. Here and there, they duck under low branches and Sarah’s hand drops from her stomach. He stops again, this time to show her wild asparagus. ‘They are young shoots at this time of year. It is the best time to collect.’ But he leaves them unpicked and they continue to walk. The gap between them closes as they come to a flat part of the track.

  ‘You have an Australian accent,’ Sarah says. It’s almost a question.

  ‘Yes, many years in Australia. Perth, Melbourne.’

  ‘Ah.’ She is not sure what else to say but as she thinks of this man in Australia and then Joss in America and, soon, Finn starting out with his own family, Liz in London, her life spins away from her, a momentary rushing that she recognises as panic which is quickly replaced with nothing. A strange blank nothing.

  ‘There’s that look again. What are you thinking?’ His words are spoken like a song, rising and falling, slow, soft, and warm. She is glad the tear that escapes runs down the cheek furthest from him. ‘You know we have no access to the past, nor to the future. There is only now. And now you are under the olive tree.’ He reaches up and picks a leaf and hands it to her. ‘One side blue-green, the other silver. The wind blows and we see both sides. But you, the wind cannot blow you, you get to choose.’ He stops walking. They have reached a wide track that leads out of the olive grove and down to the tarmac road. The leaf flips blue-green to silver as she rolls the stem between her finger and thumb.

  ‘So, see you,’ he states, planting his feet and pulling his trousers up from where they have settled around his hips.

  ‘Oh.’ Sarah looks up and then down the track and then back at the olive grove. ‘You are not going to the village?’

  ‘I think my sheep may get lonely without me,’ he grins, teasing.

  ‘Oh.’ No words will come to mind, just a sea of feelings. He twists his hand in a half wave and turns around, his measured pace taking him back into the trees, back to his herd.

  ‘Arrogant, self-centred, just plain stupid,’ she hisses, criticising herself under her breath, marching down to the road. ‘How could he have known you would be walking there? Why would he follow you? Arrogant, craziness.’

  The tarmac has no give; her flip-flops flap against her heels as she steps. The sun is gaining strength and the village seems very active. The deserted porches of the houses she passed yesterday with Liz are now populated with women in house coats as bright and gay as the flowers in
the pots. Some sweep, some mop, some tend the flowers. A man sits at one patio table drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes; in another yard, a small dog has its lead tied to the table leg. Mopeds hum and zip past her. It all feels very busy.

  Up the side road that leads to Juliet’s and the cottage is a large battered van with its back doors flung open. Two women are talking and peering into the depths of the vehicle. Boiler suits and floral dresses on hangers are hooked over its doors. Buckets with mops in front of them, baskets of tea-towels and something else Sarah does not recognise, and in the centre of this cornucopia, leaning into the van, rummaging for something, is a man whistling a happy tune. The scene feels at odds with how she feels so she looks away, to the bins; big industrial metal bins on wheels, the green plastic lids flipped back and nervous cats tearing through the contents.

  Despite the growing heat, Sarah quickens her pace up the lane, eager to be somewhere alone, safe. She has no idea what is happening to her, but it does not need an audience. She barely looks at the holiday home as she pushes open the gate. She does not take in the stone-walled sitting room where Laurence sits, peering at his laptop.

  ‘Morning. A little worse for wear are we?’

  ‘Where’s the bathroom?’

  He points to a door in the corner.

  ‘You okay?’ he asks, looking back at the computer screen.

  ‘Fine. Need a bath.’ The door closes solidly behind her. She locks it and exhales.

  Chapter 6

  The water threatens to slosh over the edge as she lowers herself into the metal bath. A small square window has been placed so she can look out over the garden whilst soaking, and it offers a view of a huge cascading fig tree with a slice of sparkling blue pool in front. She knows she should be thrilled to be here. She slips down, and the water covers her face. All is quiet except a hollow ring as her heel hits against the bottom. Opening her eyes under water, the blue-painted boards that are the ceiling smear and undulate. Blue. Everything is blue. Letting out a bubble, she wonders how long she can hold her breath. She begins to feel a tightness in her chest, the building of pressure, her body fighting, her reflexes kicking in. The blue is all-absorbing. What if she were never to breathe again? What if she were to breathe in the water? She lets another bubble escape. They say it is pleasant after the first breath—dreamy and calm. Her leg jerks as her lungs demand air. Kicking down with her heels, she pushes off, explodes out of the water gasping, the brilliance of the sunlight startling, and the water now slopping over the edge and onto the tiled floor. She is hit with how beautiful everything is in the sunlight, the white of the walls, the blue of the window frame, the green of the fig tree. But it is an academic beauty that leaves her unmoved.