by Sara Alexi
After the wedding, she began to see how real it all really was. Then she fell pregnant.
‘I’ll call her,’ Sarah says decisively.
‘No, no, Mum. Don’t.’ His eyes focus on her, all watery but alarmed.
‘Finn, Helena is the girl you are going to marry. She is feisty and funny and warm and pretty and she can talk your ears off.’ Sarah pauses whilst Finn chuckles through his tears. ‘You guys are right for each other, and no Pruella de Ville is going to spoil that.’ Sarah winces. She says it out loud and cannot take it back.
‘What? Pruella de Ville?’ Finn is smiling and wiping his eyes, beginning to laugh. ‘Mum, that is classic. Wait till I tell Helena.’ Then he starts crying again as he realises Helena is not his to tell anything just at the moment.
‘No, I didn’t mean to say that. Don’t you dare tell anyone.’ But her arm is around him as more tears fall. ‘I know, I’ll have a talk to Frona, sort this all out so you two can get on with your wedding and forget about Ms De Ville.’ The damage now done, she says it this time to make him smile, but it is a weak smile that doesn’t light his eyes.
‘But not today, Mum. Don’t talk today. I just need some time without her family, on my own a bit.’
‘Of course, love. This sofa is a double bed. The whole place is very spacious. Do you want a swim? I could find some of your father’s shorts.’
But Finn just shakes his head.
‘Talking of whom,’ Sarah says as she hears tyres crunching on gravel. ‘Do you want to have a lie down and I will fill him in?’
‘No it’s okay. Thanks, Mum.’ He wipes his face clear of tears, straightens his posture, and plasters on a fake smile.
‘Hi Dad.’
Chapter 12
Laurence has taken Finn to see some ancient ruins and then into Saros for a coffee. It will do Finn good. Laurence, if he is one on one with the boys, can make them believe that they can do anything. This sometimes got them into trouble at school, but on this occasion, it will be just what Finn needs.
The previous evening was like turning back the clock, with Finn home again and Laurence, as usual, not really joining in the conversation and going to bed early. True to the old days, she and Finn sat up late, but here in this warm country, they had the luxury of lingering by the pool to watch bats taking over from the swallows in the twilight as they swooped over the water for insects, and listening to scuttlings in the dried grass under the fig tree’s tangle of trailing branches whilst talking about nothing in particular. It was quite magical and Sarah, feeling perfectly content in the moment, picked up a pebble from the edge of the stone flags surrounding the pool and put it in her pocket, a token of the peace she felt.
This morning, with both husband and son gone, Sarah decides she will go up to Helena’s house and have a word with Frona, find out what the problem between Finn and Helena is all about.
Sarah puts on her sunglasses against the sun’s glare. The village is busy; the man with his van full of household goods is in the small, sloping square with a brood of women, mostly in black, inspecting and chattering around him. The floppy dog is running around sniffing and avoiding people. Sarah wonders who feeds it. There is an open-backed truck out on the main street piled high with watermelons, with a robust-looking weighing scale hanging from a metal framework that has been welded to the tailgate which, in turn, is welded open with a couple of rusting metal struts. Motorbikes amble past, ridden slowly by ageing farmers. Mopeds spin by noisily, driven by their fearless grandsons. Sarah spots Stella crossing the square and waves and receives a cheerful wave in return.
‘Yia,’ a man says, walking past her.
‘Yia,’ Sarah replies, stretching the word, enjoying the sound. It is the man Stella tapped on the shoulder when they went to the corner shop, but she cannot recall his name.
Once on the road heading to Helena’s, she tries to remember where the back way came out. She looks for the gap in the hedge as she passes the houses.
‘Damianos.’ She recalls the man’s name, pleased with her memory and at the same time finds the opening and disappears into the bushes. Village hubbub and traffic noises are hushed by the dense thickets whose enclosure acts as a theatre for the hum of insects. It is another world: private, insular, romantic. The bees hover around the sun-loving flowers, pollen-laden legs dangling, a challenge to aviation. Smaller insects dart with greater intent, and a large black insect the size of her thumb threatens to collide with her as she hastily steps out of its way. Despite the scorching sun, the foliage is still green here. Sarah wonders if the track is a stream in the winter, keeping the ground moist year-round somehow. But it is just a guess. She really has no idea, and the ground is dusty and parched today.
The track opens out into the field of rough grazing land. On her far right, some flaky-painted square boxes are lined against the end of the gorse. She noticed them on returning from Helena’s and today, she wants to know what they are. One with its lid ajar reveals neat rows of honeycombs on frames. They are beehives!
She hesitates before deciding to replace the lid. Of the others, one or two are lifeless, but the rest have bees crawling out of the narrow slit at the bottom of the box before spreading wing, hovering for a moment, and buzzing away. The boxes themselves look uncared for; the paint is peeling and some of the corners are coming away. The ground is littered with broken frames and honeycomb pieces and she is amazed any of the bees are still there. After inspecting the hives and the broken ones on the ground a little more, she recalls where she is going and sets a course for the side gate to Helena’s house. Climbing the incline, she is aware she is partially keeping one eye open for the shepherd and sure enough, he is there, sitting on a rock under a tree.
‘Good morning.’ Sarah puffs a little; the gentle slope is still hard work in the sun. The shepherd levers himself off the rock and slides across onto the bare ground, offering Sarah the seat. She sits, feeling a little flushed, and smooths her skirt down several times. She cannot meet his eye immediately. In fact, for a moment, she cannot look at him at all until she takes a deep breath and composes herself. ‘Thank you. By the way, what is your name?’
‘Nicholas,’ he says, but there is no joy in his voice.
‘Nicholas? That doesn’t sound very Greek-shepherd-like,’ Sarah enthuses.
‘Nicolaos in Greek.’ His voice is flat, his emphasis on the first o.
‘Hm, it sounds as if today is your day for being sad.’
‘I got a letter from my wife.’
‘Oh?’ Sarah squirms. She doesn’t want to know. It seems that everyone is struggling in their relationships. ‘Where is she?’
‘She was meant to come, but she is still in Australia.’
Sarah waits.
‘It was no good. She can be a difficult woman. My family didn’t like her.’ He speaks as if to dismiss the subject but then adds, ‘But we were married, so I stayed.’ He picks up a pinch of stone and dust from by his feet and lets it tickle between his fingers back to the ground. ‘She wore me away like a rough stone on a string and finally I snapped.’ He looks down the field across the valley. ‘So before I could do her any harm, I came here—to take a break.’ They are the words of a man forcing himself to look at what he would rather ignore.
‘How long have you been here?’ Sarah gazes around at the goats. He doesn’t look like someone on a break.
‘Two years,’ he replies.
‘That’s quite a break.’ Sarah tries to keep the surprise from her voice. ‘And you haven’t seen her since?’
‘I won’t go there and she won’t come here. So first thing this morning, I sent her the divorce papers, asking her to sign.’
‘Ouch.’
‘There is no love lost, so I guess it’s for the best, but I feel like I have failed.’ He picks up a pebble and throws it at a goat that is munching too near to him. The herd scatters.
‘Well, it’s bound to hurt.’
‘Why? I do not love her.’
‘W
ell, maybe the realisation that you do not love her, that you have no love in your life hurts?’
‘Could be.’ He pulls at a grass to chew on. ‘But let us not dwell on this, how is your life today?’
‘Oh, you know, trying to focus on the moment.’ Her hand slips inside her pocket to feel her two pebbles.
‘Life is exactly what it is.’ He looks out at the distant hills. ‘War, peace, your tooth hurts, the ouzo bottle’s empty, you win the lottery. It is what it is at any given moment. Accept that and you are content.’
‘Exactly,’ Sarah agrees. His sadness seems to be receding and it is peaceful to be with him again.
‘You know what I do now?’ he says, suddenly bright. ‘After I come here, back to my homeland, after I feel sorry for myself for a bit?’
Sarah smiles to encourage him to say more.
‘I make a decision. Every morning, I decide—what is it that I will do today that will be important to me, that will make my life worthwhile, give it some meaning?’
‘And your answer?’ Sarah enquires.
He throws his hands in the air and slaps them down, one on each knee.
‘Every day is different, and some days I decide that I will not do anything important at all—because that is my choice, too. But I have realised, sitting here, day after day with my furry friends,’ he pauses to throw another pebble at the herd, ‘that,’ his words come slowly, ‘if a person wastes even an hour of their time, they do not truly understand the value of life.’
Sarah, from their elevated position on the slope, looks down the field, over the rooftops, to the far-away mountains. She would like to put on some solid shoes and walk and walk and walk, across the plain, over the hills, and beyond to see what life would bring. Whatever came her way, it would be more than keeping house and preparing dinner. It would be something to make each hour worth living.
‘So.’ He yawns and stretches. ‘Did you come to see me today or are you on your way somewhere?’
Sarah returns from the distant hills to the pain of Finn.
‘Ah yes.’ She scrabbles to her feet. ‘Bit of an important mission this morning.’
‘Well, I wish you luck then.’ He stands.
‘Thank you.’ Sarah is surprised he does not ask what her mission is, but she is also pleased. She does not wish to go into any detail. It is all draining enough as it is. ‘See you, then, Nicolaos the shepherd.’
‘See you, er, you never told me your name?’
‘Sarah,’ she calls behind her.
‘Beautiful,’ he replies before sitting back on his rock and pulling a fresh grass stem.
The side gate to the gardens of the big house is open. It only occurs to Sarah as she reaches it that it might have been locked and she would have had to retrace her steps. She squeezes through and sees one of the dogs, thankfully in the cage, lying on its belly with one eye open. She hadn’t thought of them, either.
One or two silk lilies float on the otherwise empty swimming pool, and the emotions of yesterday return. Her heart twists for the young lovers. She circumnavigates the shimmering water and rings the doorbell. The teenager, Jenny, that she saw briefly in passing yesterday opens it almost immediately.
‘Oh hi,’ she says and opens the door wide to let Sarah in with no further preamble.
‘Can I speak to Frona?’ Sarah asks.
‘She’ll be watching telly.’ Jenny points vaguely at a door and then leaves through another door. The visitor has been let in. Her part is done.
It doesn’t feel right to be opening doors into someone’s private inner sanctum, so Sarah watches the lilies drift around on the pool for a while, hoping someone will come, but nobody does. Tapping and pushing open the door that was indicated, she finds herself in a white corridor with no windows, floor lighting, and modern art on the walls. The first door is ajar, and in the room is a large desk surrounded by chairs, the space too large for an office, too industrial for a dining room. The lights are off and it is empty. The next door is shut. Sarah puts her ear to the door; a television drones inside. She knocks and waits but remembers Frona is hard of hearing. She knocks again loudly and pushes the door open.
‘Frona?’ she asks before she is even in the darkened room.
Frona, patterned in coloured light, sitting on a hard-backed chair between two padded arm chairs, clicks the screen to black when she sees Sarah. ‘Oh, Sarah,’ she says. Shuffling forward and tipping her weight forward, she slides onto her feet.
‘I didn’t mean to interrupt you,’ Sarah says.
‘No my dear, no. It is just television. It has no feelings.’ She takes Sarah’s hand and pats it as she passes her to leave the room. ‘Come,’ she says as if she has been expecting her. They head further into the labyrinth, up some steps and through a door into a calm white room with a sofa and a high bed. Books line shelves that have semi-transparent white screens pulled down so the reading matter is visible but the colourful spines make no impact on the serenity of the space. Frona shuffles across the white carpet, adjusts a silver picture frame on top of a perspex table. The patio doors slide open to reveal an enclosed courtyard. An art piece of water pouring over a heap of stones, the water disappearing at the base, leaving the surrounding area dry, adds a central focus. The courtyard is shaded and reasonably cool. Seats of concrete are built into the walls, and these are heaped with cushions. Frona makes a sweep of her hand, inviting Sarah to sit down, and Sarah feels she has been granted an audience with the queen.
Frona takes up a position that the cushions have been indented to expect.
‘So,’ Frona says, ‘how are you?’
‘Fine,’ Sarah replies. When asked such a question, she always replies ‘fine.’ No one really wants to know how she is and even she doesn’t really want to know how she is, so she is fine. Sleepwalking through life. If someone pushes the point and really asks, ‘How are you?’ wanting a truthful reply, she says ‘Excellent.’ To say anything less would reflect badly on Laurence and the life he gives her.
‘That’s right, "fine,"‘ Frona answers as if she understands. ‘And Finn?’
‘They say men should not cry, but he cried like a baby.’
‘Helena too.’
‘What was it about?’
‘No idea. All I know is Helena is stubborn. Early this morning, she makes several phone calls to her friends with astringent happiness in her voice and now she has gone to Athens for the day to shop with her mama at The Mall.’
‘Oh.’
‘It is all fake and bluffing,’ Frona puffs.
‘Has she cancelled anything? The church, her friends coming?’
‘What would I know? I am Helana’s favourite when it suits her. But I do not think she will call it off yet.’
‘Yet?’ Sarah can hear her heart beat in her ears.
‘Yes, you know, she will flaunt her independence a little, sulk a little, and wait. Wait for Finn to come begging. When he does, she will refuse, he will have to prostrate himself, she will toy with him, he will be on the verge of giving up, and she will snatch him back and they will marry.’
‘You make it sound like such a game.’ Sarah experiments with a little laugh, her shoulders drop and her frown disappears.
‘It is a game.’
‘Not for Finn it’s not.’ Her frown returns.
‘It is the game of courtship. They are a fine, energetic couple, they come from privileged backgrounds ...’ Frona does not pause as Sarah cringes. ‘And the drama of their courtship should be as splendid as their lives.’
‘You make it sound so harmless, but Finn is heartbroken,’ Sarah says.
‘Let us give it a day, maybe two. You’ll see.’ Frona stands, as if indicating the audience is over. ‘But you, you are the last person to worry about Finn and Helena.’ One of her eyebrows raises and Sarah is not sure if she should read more into what was just said. ‘Meanwhile, I don’t think you have met Helena’s baba yet, have you? Come on, let us track him down. He will be in the gym, no doubt.’
‘Jim,’ Frona commands over the music. The man running presses a button and the music stops, his treadmill slows. On seeing Sarah, he pulls the towel from around his neck and wipes his brow. ‘This is Finn’s mama, Sarah.’ The man jumps from the machine. Wiping his hand, he shakes Sarah’s heartily.
‘Well hello, Mrs Quayle.’
‘Please call me Sarah.’
‘And call me Jim.’ He walks over to a water fountain and fills a small paper cup.
‘I understand Helena and your wife are in Athens.’
‘Yes, shopping therapy and cooling off, I hope. So like her mother—feisty and stubborn. And like her Yiayia.’ He winks at Frona, who hisses through her teeth and waves his dismissal. ‘Finn’s a great guy. Is he okay?"
‘No. No really, he was so upset.’
‘Yes well, he will get to know her and then it all won’t seem so traumatic. Her mother did the same to me. I had my heart in my mouth for the first three years of our marriage. Calmed her down having kids. Shall we go upstairs? I’ll have some coffee made.’
Whilst the coffee is brewing, Sarah is shown up, by a woman who does not look Greek and speaks no English, to a balcony that overlooks the whole area. Alone with such a view, she takes her time to orientate herself, picking out landmarks in the village, tracing roads out into the country. To her right, she easily spots the tree in the centre of the rough land. The ground is laced with tracks that the goats and sheep have eroded with their eager hooves. The trails converge near the top of the hill into a single ribbon that follow a winding track down the back of the slope.
A shiver runs down Sarah’s spine as she spots a low-lying cottage deeply nestled into the hillside. So planted is it in the soil, little of the whitewashed walls are visible and the roof tiles are so mottled, so variegated that even they blend into the surrounding dried earth. Dots of colour suggest pots of flowers dotted here and there at its base. A rougher roof nearby could be the sheep’s enclosure. She stiffens. A tiny shape emerges from under the roof tiles. Nicolaos! He carries something under his arm. Specks that Sarah has presumed were dried vegetation run to him and she realizes they are chickens. His free hand dips into whatever he is holding in his crooked arm and then draws an arch in front of him. The hens gather more and more as he sows their food. Sarah watches, feeling slightly guilty at her voyeurism but unable to look away. Finally, he takes the container from under his arm and, turning it upside down, bangs the bottom. She faintly hears the sound: dull, without resonance.
