by Jo Thomas
Every afternoon when I arrive at the restaurant I tell myself that this is the day I’m going to ask Yannis where Stelios is. But every day, try as I might to work the conversation around to brothers, extra helping hands, family get-togethers, he always finds a job to do, a reason to move the conversation on, and with it goes my resolve to face this head on. As soon as I tell him who I am, everything I’ve built between us could fall apart. And right now, I’m quite enjoying my little routine here. I have an extra place where I belong. For the first time in my life, I have to be patient, listen and wait. I’m not being hot-headed and stubborn; I’m waiting for my moment and actually enjoying it.
After lunch, Yannis and I usually share the leftovers, the dish of the day that has been prepared but not sold. Wonderful home-cooked dishes he learned from his mother and grandmother, and he tells me about his hopes and dreams. How he wants to leave the island, see the world, but has to run the family restaurant instead. If I try and ask why it’s down to him, he shrugs and replies that that’s how it is. It’s life. He tells me how he hopes for change to come to the town, something that will bring it back to life again, but really he dreams of travelling and meeting as many young ladies who look like Britney Spears as he can along the way!
And usually after we have eaten, I drive around the town, scanning the streets, hoping to catch a glimpse of Stelios before I return to the farm and help out with feeding the animals and harvesting from the vegetable patch with Maria as the evening cools. But today, Maria has other plans.
‘A day off!’ she tells me. ‘You are working too hard. The factory is ready,’ she waves her hand around, ‘and I’m sure Yannis will let you off. All the tourists will be at the market today. No one will be coming up here.’ I start to protest that I’m happy working. It keeps my mind occupied. And I don’t want to be away from the restaurant if there’s a chance Stelios is going to visit. But she won’t take no for an answer.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask. It feels surreal to think that in just a few weeks I’ll be back home. I’m halfway through my time here. Will the house feel as cold and empty as when I left? I wipe my hands quickly.
‘Mitera thinks you’re not getting out enough.’
‘I’m fine. I’m happy just doing my work, helping out in the restaurant and coming back here.’ The more I have to do, the less time I have to think about Demi and the calls that seem to get less and less frequent these days. But if she’s busy and happy, I know that’s a good thing.
‘She thinks you are working too hard and need to make some friends. She worries you might feel lonely. Come, I will help you to finish up, and then we will go.’
She comes to stand next to me at the sink on the side wall, picking up a tea towel and starting to dry the jars I’ve been washing.
‘When I first married Kostas, I thought we had it all with this place. Business was good. People came to the mountain. Mitera and Kostas’s father would make the honey here. Kostas would sell it at the front gate when the coaches came. The honey was something special. It . . . well, it came from the heart of the mountain.’ There is a tear in the corner of her eye. ‘I just hope it will come again.’
I can see how much the thought of losing the farm upsets her. I take the dried jar from her and put it on a tray, ready to take to the house for sterilising in the oven.
‘When I finally stopped hoping that Kostas and I would be blessed with children, we poured all the love we had into the farm. I grew to love it as he does. Despite the winters!’ She laughs and stops to wipe away the tears with her tea towel. ‘You are lucky to have a daughter,’ she tells me.
‘I know,’ I say, my throat prickling as I try to swallow. Demi hasn’t disappeared out of my life, I realise. She isn’t gone for good. It’s just different now. I put a soapy arm around Maria and squeeze, leaving bubbles on her shoulder. Maria always puts on such a cheerful, brave face.
‘Sometimes I wonder what we have done to upset the gods,’ she says as she carries on with the jars, drying them thoroughly and placing them on the tray.
‘Oh Maria, you haven’t done anything. How can you say that? You are the most big-hearted, welcoming, kind people I have ever met! I wish I was half the person you are!’
She puts her warm hand on mine, squeezing and patting it. ‘Thank you,’ she says, and I know there and then that a friendship has been made for life. ‘But I worry what will happen if we can’t get the bees to come.’ She drops her head and sniffs, then rubs her nose and with a deep breath lifts her head again. ‘Now come,’ she says, brushing off any sadness in her usual bright way, ‘it’s a day off! It’s time to go out.’
Out of the shade of the shed, the sun is burning hot, cracking the dry earth on the pathway back to the farmhouse. The goats stick their heads through the fence, clearly fascinated to see where we’re going.
‘Here, we’ll take the scooter,’ says Maria, grabbing the key and two helmets from the dresser just inside the door.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask as we climb aboard, Maria up front, her big bottom spilling over the seat like a soft pillow.
‘Just into Vounoplagia.’ She shuffles forward, starts the engine and calls for me to get on behind her as the little bike roars into life with its customary farting and belching.
‘But what about Mitera?’ I shout as I climb on to the hot plastic seat, wincing as I do. ‘How will she get there?’
She turns to me and smiles from her open-faced helmet, like a big beaming moon. ‘She walked, of course.’
‘Of course,’ I nod, silly me! Back home, no one walks. Gracie can barely make it to the shop at the end of the road and always sent Demi to get her fags and lottery ticket. We have a lot to learn from these people, I think, as Maria pulls out down the drive. I turn to wave at Kostas, who is standing sadly behind the fly sheet, like a dog left behind on a family day out, still looking out for signs of bees.
Once I’ve released my grip on her, Maria steps off the bike and pulls off her helmet. I follow, my knees shaking after the hair-raising ride, and she beams at me. ‘Mitera wants to introduce you to her friends,’ she says, nodding to the taverna at the end of the street leading to the Wild Thyme Restaurant, where I first sat watching for signs of Stelios all those weeks ago. She waves me forward to the main road, past the kafenia, where the same two men I have seen every time I’ve passed are sitting outside. I nod my head in greeting but they just stare at me, as before.
Maria ushers me up a couple of steps to the taverna’s terrace area, which has an uneven flagstone floor and a few pots here and there, some cracked, others weatherworn and a bit green. Right in the middle of the terrace is a large plane tree under which empty tables and chairs are gathered. There is an open grill at the back, but the coals are unlit. She leads me past a waitress, who nods and smiles, and then up a couple of steps into a cool whitewashed room, where a group of women, all around Mitera’s age, are sitting in a circle, crocheting by the looks of it.
‘Ah!’ Mitera puts up a hand. ‘Our guest!’ She smiles widely, having obviously stuck her teeth in securely this morning. ‘Come, sit down.’ She indicates a chair. The other women all look up from the stitching on their laps and stare at me. ‘This is Nell, the WWOOFer!’ Mitera says with a flourish, making me smile. She places something on my lap.
‘Oh, I . . . I really couldn’t,’ I attempt to explain. ‘I’ve never crocheted.’ The closest I’ve come is sticking patches and shiny gems on the cut-off shorts I’m wearing.
‘You can learn. I taught Kostas when he was a boy,’ Mitera tells me. Her English is far more stilted than Kostas and Maria’s, but still very good. ‘Everyone here has a little English,’ Mitera explains. ‘Since the British soldiers came in the war and then later as the holidaymakers began to arrive. This is Agatha, from the shop.’ She points a finger to the main road, and I smile by way of hello. I’ve seen Agatha sitting outside befo
re. Mitera goes around the circle introducing each of the women to me. They are all wearing black, all crocheting busily, and not one of them, I notice, is wearing glasses as they work.
Maria sits down next to me and starts to show me how to crochet. But I’m hopeless. I can’t see what I’m supposed to be doing. How do these ladies manage it? They are talking amongst themselves and I get the feeling some of them are discussing me, leaning into each other and speaking in hushed tones, giving me quick glances.
‘You all have very good eyesight and nimble fingers,’ I say. ‘No arthritis?’ I add lightly, stretching out my already aching fingers.
‘No, no.’ The woman to my immediate left shakes her head. But some of the others tip their heads from side to side.
‘We didn’t used to. But . . . well, it’s different now that we don’t have so much . . .’ Agatha stretches out her stiffening fingers, and they all nod in agreement.
‘Some of us are starting to get more aches and pains now there is less dittany to be had,’ says Gabriela, the café owner’s mother. ‘My husband suffers from gout. It is very good for that.’
‘So how do you get the dittany when you need it?’ I try and focus on what I’m being shown, the old lady next to me trying to guide my hands by holding her soft dark brown ones, knobbly but not gnarled, over them.
They look at each other like I’ve entered a magic circle and asked to be shown how the trick is done.
‘Same as for us,’ Mitera replies eventually.
‘The messenger of the gods?’ I ask. I hear a sucking-in of breath around me, and a couple of the women look nervously in the direction of the mountain, as if something bad will happen if they let out the town’s secret.
Mitera looks around the circle. ‘Nell is one of us. She has worked hard to help Kostas and Maria,’ she scolds them, first in Greek and then in English for my benefit. ‘Yes,’ she nods to me. ‘Most of us here have had help from the messenger. Christina gets a delivery for her husband when his gout is bad; Gabriela for her hip; Agatha for her arthritis and her husband’s gas!’ and they all laugh and wave their hands around, agreeing, warming to me and the conversation, it seems.
‘And it helps?’ I ask.
‘It is miraculous!’ they all say.
‘It makes you feel strong!’ Christina looks at me with beady bright eyes.
‘And sometimes frisky!’ says Agatha.
‘With your husband? Really?’ Gabriela jokes.
‘Maybe with yours!’ Agatha retorts, and they all laugh again.
My neighbour reaches over as she attempts to help me and move my work on. They are all talking now, louder, mostly in Greek, laughing and joking.
‘So, this messenger, who is it? What do they look like?’ Suddenly the laughter stops and they all look at me.
‘No one knows,’ says Mitera. ‘The dittany just appears, and . . . well, we’re grateful.’
For the next couple of hours the women sit and crochet, telling each other of their families’ aches and pains and joys and troubles. I wonder if I will hear news about Stelios. But once again, despite me telling them that I’m helping out at the Wild Thyme, there is nothing. No one mentions Stelios, the son who was going to build a boutique hotel and bring the tourists to the mountain.
‘We should go,’ Maria says finally, her cheeks full and rosy from time spent chatting and drinking coffee. And I feel my spirits lifted too. Stelios is tantalisingly close, I can sense it.
‘Where shall I put this?’ I stand with the crochet needles and yarn in my hand.
‘I can do that,’ Mitera starts to get up.
‘No, let me,’ I say. ‘Is it over here?’ and she nods. I open a cupboard door and then step back. There are piles and piles of crocheted circles in here, like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I turn to look back at Mitera, at all of them working hard to crochet more circles that may never see the light of day.
Mitera shrugs sadly. ‘Nobody comes to buy them any more,’ she says, and I look at the towers of coasters and mats and then close the door quickly before they tumble out.
Poor Kostas and Maria; poor Mitera and the ladies at the crocheting circle. It isn’t right. There must be a way of getting the tourists back.
I think of Harry Henderson. Attractive as he was, I’m not looking for a date or anything like that. But he was interested in bringing more tourists here. The whole town would benefit, I think, as we drive much more slowly back up the mountain, the moped bottoming out and scraping along the ground every now and again. The honey farm would draw tourists too. Maybe I should try one more time to find the dittany that will bring the bees to the farm.
I tell Maria I’m going for a lie-down, but instead I change into my walking boots and grab my bag and a water bottle. I’m going up the mountain, and this time, there’s no way I’m going to let Georgios put me off!
The late-afternoon sun has disappeared and dark clouds fill the sky, replacing the strange stillness that was in the air when we returned to the farm. I’m feeling so enraged on behalf of my new friends. I know that wherever Stelios is, he wouldn’t stand for this. These people just want to get on with their lives. They have a right to be on that mountain. It can’t be so difficult to find some dittany and bring it down to the meadow to plant.
The heat is clammy and oppressive and there’s a smell of herbs in the air. My well-worn black T-shirt with the Christmas decoration factory logo on the back clings to me, and I keep pulling at it in the patches where it’s stuck. The wind is starting to pick up. An old feed sack escapes from the barn and whisks up the hill, making the goats scatter with fright. I chase it, capture it and return it before filling my water bottle from the stream in the valley by the sheds, trickling down from the peak of the mountain to the town below. Then, pulling my T-shirt over my mouth and nose, I make my way out on to the dusty road and up towards the mountain track.
My phone trills into life. It’s Yannis, asking if I can help out in the restaurant this evening. It’s his grandmother’s birthday, he tells me; the whole family are coming. This is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for. Finally my patience has paid off. In just a few hours’ time, I’ll see Stelios in person. I type my reply, then shove my phone away, knowing I’m going to lose signal soon.
Reaching the area where I collect the greens, I pause and look down the valley. The neighbouring mountaintops are shrouded in grey clouds like fur collars, and I can’t see the rooftops of the town below, let alone down to the sea. I look back towards the path I usually take to pick the wild greens, then turn and head straight on up, over the fallen trunk across the path. This time when I get to the landslide of fallen rocks I scramble over without hesitating. Dusting myself down, I keep moving forward, higher and higher. I have to find some dittany.
I’m heading for what looks to be a plateau. When I reach it, I pull myself up, panting, and look around in surprise. There are half a dozen different-coloured boxes, blue, yellow and white, standing on some old tyres on a flat piece of ground under the shade of some old olive trees, shimmering silver, their trunks bent, twisted and gnarled but still thriving; much like the elderly people of this town, I think with a smile.
I have no idea what’s in the boxes. They’re wooden and square with a catch at the front, securing the lid, and two slits either side of the catch. They could be holding anything. Then it dawns on me how high up I am. Is whatever is being grown or stashed away in these solid boxes why people are being kept off the mountain?
The sky is still darkening and it looks like someone’s thrown a blanket over the lower peaks, making them dark and moody. I feel myself shiver. I’m puzzled. If these boxes are the reason people are being kept away, why is there no one here guarding them? I look back at the boxes. Should I open one? I glance around again to double-check that there’s no one else around. What would you keep in boxes like this? Stolen stuff? Pho
nes and wallets from unsuspecting tourists? Perhaps it’s a gang working the coastal resorts. Or maybe drugs, like Maria was saying; illegal groups working in the mountains, hiding their stash up here where no one will find it.
I step closer to one of the boxes, the wind whipping my hair round my face as it escapes from the hairband I tied it back with. One of Demi’s I found in my hoodie pocket. Even that smells of her and makes me miss her. The wind fills my head with noise and my breathing gets shallower as I reach out a shaking hand. I look around again nervously, imagining myself coming face to face with the barrel of a drug baron’s pistol. Maybe they’re not expecting to be raided in the middle of the afternoon. Who would be stupid enough to do that?
I take a big breath and let it out slowly, then reach for the catch . . . just a little further . . . and flip the lid up as quickly as I can. I jump back, then peer in. Not drugs. Not stolen goods. Not guns . . . BEES! Buzzing very loudly! Stupid, stupid me. They’re beehives, full of bees, and very unhappy ones by the sounds of it. So this is where the bees that Kostas has been chasing must come from. Not from the wild, but actual hives. But these aren’t like Kostas’s hives. I wonder who put them here. I need to get out of here, fast.
Suddenly there is an almighty bang and the shriek I was trying to hold in escapes. I bite my lip and whip back round to look at the beehives, six of them. The sky is dark grey and angry, just like the bees, who possibly think I’m after their honey.
‘There, there, it’s OK,’ I say. I’m trying to sound soothing, but my voice is shaking. ‘I don’t want anything from you. Just go back to sleep . . . or whatever it is you do in there. Just go back to having fun. Nothing to see here . . .’ Oh God! This is ridiculous. I’m talking to a box of bees.
