A Handful of Pebbles

by Sara Alexi

  ‘Oh village, please. Do I just go and choose vegetables or do I ask?’

  ‘Either.’ Stella slides her plastic bag up her arm. ‘I go now. Bye.’ And with no more said, Stella swings her bag as she heads down the steps and across the square towards what looks like a basic taverna with tables outside and unlit fairy lights wrapped around the tree that arches the door.

  The vegetables smell of the ground; the tomatoes are not an even red but have a strong, warm smell; the lettuces are wet, and one has a tiny slug near where it has been cut from its roots.

  ‘These please, Marina, and a bottle of wine.’ She takes out her purse.

  ‘Kokkino, lefko, rosé?’ Marina asks, her toe tapping a long line of plastic bottles arranged up on the floor beneath the lowest shelf. Sarah had not noticed them before, with so much else to look at. She glances at the glass bottles of wine on the top shelf. There are not many of them and they are dusty, and Marina could not even reach them up there without standing on something.

  ‘Sorry?’ She looks back at the plastic bottles.

  ‘Kokkino.’ Marina taps a red plastic bottle with her toe. ‘Lefko.’ She taps a pale yellow bottle. ‘Ee rosé?’ She taps a pale pink one.

  ‘Oh.’ Sarah laughs with the relief of her comprehension. ‘One,’ she holds up a finger, ‘kokkino and one,’ she tucks her purse under her arm and holds up a finger with her other hand, ‘Rosé.’

  Marina bags the bottles. ‘Finish?’ she asks.

  Nodding, Sarah pulls out some cash, examining the notes. Marina rings everything up on the cash register and points to the numbers. It is cheaper than Sarah could have imagined, and she counts out her coins to find she is twenty cents short in change and will have to break a fifty Euro note.

  ‘Sorry.’ She passes the note across. Marina pushes it back and cupping her hand she mimes that Sarah should tip up her purse.

  ‘I am twenty cents short.’ She tips the change out. Marina’s fingers are swift to count.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ She pours the change into her till.

  ‘But it is short,’ Sarah insists.

  ‘Ah, tomorrow.’ The word almost becomes lost in her thick accent but her smile makes everything clear.

  ‘Thank you so much.’ Sarah’s cheeks are aching from smiling. She has not stopped since she meet Stella. Gathering her bags, she repeats herself, ‘Thank you, thank you.’

  ‘Adio.’ Marina waves.

  Sarah hadn’t realized there was air conditioning in the shop until she steps back outside, nor how warm the evening is. It would be nice to wander for a little, see where some of the streets lead.

  ‘Hello.’ It is Helena. ‘I’ve just come down for wine, too.’

  ‘Oh hi, is Finn with you?’ She looks up the side lane, but only an old lady in black follows.

  ‘Sarah, this is my aunt Sofrona, Frona for short. Frona, this is Sarah.’ She raises her voice for the second sentence. ‘Finn’s mother.’ She keeps the pitch high.

  ‘Ah!’ The old woman’s eyes light up and her arms extend, and she approaches Sarah on shaky legs. The embrace is gentle but heartfelt. ‘A good boy,’ she states in a Greek American accent, kissing Sarah first on one cheek, then the other.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Sarah replies. The aunt says no more, so Sarah turns back to Helena. ‘I thought you were going to bouzouki clubs?’

  ‘We are, but Finn is still asleep, and besides, it is early yet. But I am glad we have bumped into you. Tomorrow, you must come up to the house, meet everyone, have some lunch, spend some time, okay?’

  ‘Oh yes, okay.’ Sarah quite likes the idea. Helena seems more relaxed this evening; maybe the village is rubbing off on her, too.

  ‘Come about, oh I don’t know, eleven, twelve. We will eat around half two or three, if you want to stay at ours for a sleep at mesimeri, there are plenty of rooms.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Helena gives Sarah a little wave as she passes to go inside the shop, very relaxed, nice. The aunt smiles ‘A good boy,’ she says again and shuffles away.

  It will be nice to actually spend some time with Finn. His life keeps him so busy, his visits have been so brief and he has so many friends to catch up with on the island that she sees little of him even when he is home. It was the same when they went to visit him in London to meet Helena for the first time, snatching pockets of time in between clients he had to see. But then, what he is doing is so new and cutting edge, apparently. He needs to keep on top of things. Sarah hardly understands his work anyway. He explained it to her of course—something like ‘selling media space for shares in new companies that are cash poor.’ But it didn’t explain exactly what he does, how he finds these companies, what sort of media space, and how he knows about that. He has outgrown her by miles and lives in a world she can only look into from the outside. Well, good for him. At least he knows what he is doing with his life and has a passion for it.

  Damianos, the man Stella tapped on the shoulder, nods as Sarah makes her return journey, as does Mitsos. The man serving has a halo of frizzy greying hair, and he also grins broadly at her and nods in recognition.

  Her tread is lighter as she leaves the square. She takes the clip from her hair and lets it swing.

  Sarah slows to admire the flowers in the garden up the lane that leads to Michelle’s. The lady who was tending the garden is no longer there, but there is a smell of herbs from the house. Something is cooking.

  Pushing her own gate open, Sarah swings the bags as she hops onto the porch. A Spanish omelette with salad and fresh bread drizzled with olive oil and oregano, perfect.

  ‘Oh my God, where have you been?’ Laurence strides around the end of the house, frowning.

  ‘To get eggs.’ Her smiles fades.

  ‘Ah, there you are. We were so worried.’ Neville comes out of the house. Sarah shifts her weight towards Laurence.

  ‘I was only five minutes.’

  ‘But we didn’t know where you were,’ Laurence accuses. She shifts back towards Neville.

  ‘I’m fine. I’d better start or it will never be cooked.’ She manoeuvres around Neville to find Liz in the kitchen pouring a large drink.

  ‘I swear your leash gets tighter every time I see you.’

  ‘Liz!’ she whispers in warning and takes the glass offered.

  ‘Can I make a toast, then? To longer leashes and loving husbands.’ She raises her glass, finishes her drink, and pours herself a fresh one. ‘Come on, we can cook together.’ Liz’s words slur ever so slightly.

  ‘I saw Helena in the village. I am going up to her house tomorrow to meet everyone.’

  ‘Oh that will be fun.’ The emphasis lands on the word will.

  ‘No, I think it will be fine.’ But now Sarah is home, it doesn’t feel as fine as it did when she was out. Trying to convince herself, she adds, ‘She seemed more mellow somehow, as if the village has relaxed her.’

  ‘You said yesterday she was as chatty as ever, so it can’t be the village because didn’t you say she had been a week here already?’

  ‘Yes, I did, so I suppose not.’

  ‘Well I am going to discover a beach tomorrow, so if you can get away, call me.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘Well I doubt Neville will want to come. Can you see him out of his suit, in swimming trunks, doing nothing on a beach? No, he has some plans to go and see some ancient pile of stones and a museum.’

  ‘With Laurence?’

  ‘No idea.’

  Chapter 9

  Sarah arrives hot from the walk. There was no persuading Laurence to come with her.

  ‘Laurence, we cannot meet them for the first time at the wedding, and besides, they have invited us to their house. Not to go would just be plain rude,’ Sarah argued.

  ‘Finn is marrying Helena, and whether the rest of us get on or not is immaterial and I, for one, have no desire to spend my time pretending it is any other way.’

  ‘But you socialise all the time with work.’ Using his w
ork as a levy was risky; he might turn on her.

  ‘Exactly—work.’ Laurence replied calmly.

  ‘Then for Finn’s sake come.’

  ‘Finn’s fine. He needs no display from me.’

  And with a look, that had been the end of the conversation.

  He had gone off with Neville first thing whilst Sarah lay in bed wondering if the day would be worth getting up for.

  The dogs behind the solid metal gate bark furiously.

  ‘Nai?’ The intercom crackles.

  ‘Oh. My name is Sarah and I ...’

  ‘Oh Sarah. One minute; I bring the dogs in.’

  The barking stops, replaced by the sound of claws clicking against tarmac as they scamper away. The gate buzzes and swings open to reveal a drive that sweeps up a shallow incline lined with rhododendron bushes. The hedges create shade, which makes the walking a little more pleasant, and around a bend, the drive opens onto a lawn that stretches in front and beyond a modern house which has clean, sharp lines which mostly appear to be windows. The dogs are nowhere to be seen. A large carport to one side houses six cars, and at the end of the drive, where one would expect perhaps a seating area in front of the house, there is a sunken swimming pool which extends under the glass front and inside. To the right of the pool, a door opens.

  ‘Sarah, good morning! No Laurence?’

  Sarah walks around the edge of the pool to be greeted with a kiss on either cheek from Helena.

  ‘Come in. We are all here. Ignore them.’ Helena indicates two children who are chasing each other and sliding across the marble floor from the staircase right up to the pool’s edge. The section of window that separates inside from out above the pool appears to be able to raise and lower. At the moment, it is raised and there is a person energetically swimming lengths. ‘My dad. You’ll meet him when he gets out,’ Helena says. There’s a vague smell of chlorine. ‘Stop that now or you will have an accident.’ Her tone is sharp, but the children ignore her. One of the many doors off the hall opens and a man wanders out, newspaper in hand. ‘Tom, one of my many cousins.’ Helena says. He nods and winks at Sarah.

  ‘Come, I am in the kitchen. I have done something crazy and you may have to help me out,’ Helena continues. A woman in grey linen is ascending the sweeping stairs and Sarah’s eyes are drawn upward. The hall is open, rising through three floors to a dome of glass at the top. Sarah tips her head to look up and up. The light and the height of the building reminds Sarah of museums in London but everywhere there is a modern edge. Helena is walking off, so Sarah breaks her gaze to follow.

  ‘Jenny, where’s Frona?’ Helena asks a new face coming towards then. The teenager shrugs and scowls sulkily at Sarah. They enter a kitchen that seems to be teeming with women. A radio is on and someone sings along.

  ‘Everyone,’ Helena shouts above the din and the room settles and heads turn. Sarah links her fingers in front of her. ‘This is Sarah, Finn’s mama.’ The womens’ voices melt together and Sarah can pick out ‘welcome,’ ‘wonderful,’ ‘hello,’ and ‘yia.’ Two of the women nearest come over, clapping flour from their hands to embrace Sarah and to place kisses on her cheeks before returning to their work.

  Sarah is overwhelmed by the number of people in the house and she pictures, with just a tinge of regret, the coffee and book she left by the quiet of the pool before she came out.

  The noise begins again: chatting, singing, everyone busy. ‘Come, look what I have done.’ Helena leads her to the counter against the wall where the lady in black that she met yesterday outside the shop stands. ‘Frona, you’re there. Look, here’s Finn’s mama, Sarah.’ She shouts a little. Frona’s eyes twinkle and she takes Sarah’s hand and pats it between her own.

  ‘Look.’ Helena lifts foil from several shapes on the counter. ‘I baked these this morning. I suddenly had this mad idea to make my own wedding cake, but now it is time to decorate it and I have lost my impetus.’ She sounds both nervous and excited. Sarah has never seen Helena anything but composed, even when she is overflowing with energy.

  ‘Mum!’ Finn wraps his arms around Sarah’s shoulders from behind and she feels every bone in her body melt. She breathes in the scent from his forearms and kisses the soft hairs, her son. It feels like she lost Joss years ago. When he became a man, he seemed to lose all softness and then, when he shifted his interest to work in finance, the whole meaning of his life seemed to become the endless and tireless chasing after money. He no longer felt like someone she knew. But Finn, Finn will always be her baby.

  ‘Look what Helena’s done.’ Finn releases Sarah and throws his arms around Helena, who smiles and moulds into him. ‘Mad or what, she could have just ordered it, end of worry, but oh no.’ He is laughing and kissing Helena on the forehead.

  ‘So shall we decorate it, Sarah? What do you think?’ Helena says as Finn releases her. She bends and takes some packets from the cupboard below.

  ‘Are you helping, Frona?’ Finn addresses the old lady in black as he throws one arm around her shoulder. Sarah swallows and blinks as the idea of her son being engulfed by another family becomes real for her.

  ‘Oh Finn, those things arrived.’ Helena puts the packets she has retrieved on the work surface. ‘Come and see.’ She takes him by the hand. ‘Won’t be a moment, Sarah,’ and off the two of them go, laughing and kissing. Helena seems much gentler than Sarah remembered, and Finn is clearly happy. But then, he was always a happy child, even as he struggled through adolescence. Half way through his A levels, Sarah can remember sitting with him in the kitchen, trying to work out where his interests lay. He wanted to go to university in theory but had no idea what to study. She asked him what it was in life that made it all make sense for him, hoping the answer to this would give him a clue as to what was dear to his heart, a suitable point from which to figure out what he wanted to do. But he had shrugged and smiled as if to say he didn’t know what she meant but he was happy anyway. Even when he did decide what he wanted to study, it was clearly a means to an end, not a passion. But now, watching him with Helena, she can see he has his meaning by his side and he is hers. They are lucky.

  ‘You know how to ice?’ Frona addresses her in her American-Greek accent. Age has wrinkled and dried her olive skin and twisted her fingers but she has the same twinkle in her eyes as Helena, and Sarah presumes she is the grandmother.

  ‘Well, I used to ice my cakes.’ Another of the things she learnt during the endless days with the boys at school and Laurence on his long-haul flights, but it has been a while. Frona struggles with one of the packets. ‘Here, let me,’ Sarah offers.

  Helena does not return immediately, but Sarah and Frona make short work of rolling out the ready-made icing and covering all the cakes. Frona proves easy to talk to and appears to have no inhibitions about what she feels comfortable sharing.

  ‘Finn has been very good to me, you know. He’s a boy to be proud of.’ Frona lays a sheet of icing, using a rolling pin, over the last cake. ‘The family know I have not been myself for some time and I wasn’t going to come to the wedding, but Finn, he rings me up, from London, all the way to America, and he tells me he needs me there at his wedding to make everything complete. Such a nice boy. So I am here for him.’ She pauses for breath. It seems Helena’s way of talking is just something she has learnt. She doesn’t mean to bombard with words. This old lady’s way of speaking is the same, just smoother somehow, tempered by age, perhaps.

  ‘Me not being myself, they, my family, called it depression,’ Frona states. Sarah winces at the word, knowing that her own heavy darkness could be given such a label. But she would rather not know. Out of the kitchen window, she can see bright sunshine and a cloudless blue sky. The air conditioning in the kitchen is very efficient. ‘How about we make roses. You can make roses, right? Stack the cakes and put them in a sweeping arch down from here to here?’ Frona doesn’t even take a breath to change the topic of the conversation back and forth. ‘I said to my family, "Why does there always have to be a big
fancy word for how we feel. We are human, right? Why can I not just be sad?" But they asked me again and again how I feel and I tell them. They say such pain cannot be just sadness, so they take me to the doctors and she put me on pills. Wet your fingers,’ Frona tells Sarah as she smooths her first petal. Sarah feels she should make some response to the tale Frona is telling her but cannot think what to say. Her instinct is to keep the topic at arm’s length.

  ‘So I take the pills to shut them up and nothing changes and my boy, he comes to me and say would I like to go to hospital. "Hospital," I say, "for feeling sad?" But the family insist it is depression, so they take me to the hospital. Shall we colour some pink? No, better not; we’ll stick to white.’ This time, she takes a breath. ‘And there, on the doorstep of this fancy hospital, is a doctor in his fancy white coat. "I hear you are depressed," he says, with no introduction and so now I am even more fed up with all these people telling me how I feel, so I face up to him.

  ‘"Listen doctor," I say, "I have lived a long life. I grew up in the war in Greece. I saw some terrible things. I was reduced to fighting over tortoises for food. I have lived on a shoestring with my children and I have a full-blooded Greek husband."‘

  Sarah cannot tell if this last comment is full of pride, a joke, or a concern, but there’s no stopping Frona now anyway.

  ‘"I married him when I was fifteen, I had a child at sixteen. I know life."

  ‘The doctor, he stands there quietly, so I continue, "Five years ago my husband, my companion through this life, dies. I miss him. I grieve. Yes, I grieve for five years, but what is five years compared to the all the years I was married and all we have been through? That is the trouble with you doctors," I say. "You take a human challenge, like grief or sadness, and you give it a fancy name and it becomes something worse, something so big, a person does not believe they can cope with it alone. You take something that is unwanted and you call it abnormal and you call this abnormal thing a mental disease. If it is a disease, how do we cope without you? You make yourself patients with your labels. We sink further with our labelled diseases until we come pleading for your drugs and expertise, convinced you must know so much more than us, as you gave our suffering a serious name. But give it a name like Natural Sadness or even call it A Human Challenge, and suddenly it is not a thing to be feared but an event to be overcome." So I say to this fancy doctor in his white coat, "Thank you, but I do not need your hospital or your pills. I need just what all humans need—good conversation, companionship, and somewhere I can give love."