The first customers to arrive for lunch were a casually, but expensively, dressed couple in their forties, tanned and blond, the type who cruised the islands in their own yacht. They were the sort of people that Rose found intimidating. Meaning to give the impression of professionalism, she bounded out and announced brightly, ‘The chicken’s off.’
They both looked up in alarm and she realised it sounded like salmonella chicken was the plat du jour.
‘Not off off,’ she explained helpfully. ‘It’s not on the menu.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said the man, pointing to it seemingly without irony. ‘I see it here.’ His English was too precise for a first language. He was obviously one of the more pedantic nationalities. Or was he actually trying to be funny?
‘We’ve run out, is what I’m trying to say.’ Rose’s gaze was drawn to the sea, wishing she was in it, instead of dealing with this character.
‘How can you have run out?’ asked the woman, lowering her designer sunglasses as she indicated the empty tables. ‘We’re the first here.’
‘Look,’ said Rose, with a sigh. ‘We don’t have chicken. All right? Just pick something else.’
‘We’ll need a moment to think about it,’ the man said smoothly.
Rose nodded, relieved they were all on the same menu now, but when she came back with the bread basket, the table was empty. No great loss. They were the sort of people who would whinge about everything anyway.
The terrace gradually began to fill with customers and Rose rushed back and forth with orders, increasingly flustered. Even though she wrote the orders in large print, her arm wasn’t long enough to read it back with any accuracy. Every time she walked into the kitchen, she instantly forgot why she was there. She constantly forgot bread or water and who had ordered what.
No one seemed to mind too much. In fact, a tour group of middle-aged Brits, who had arrived in a minibus, found her antics highly amusing. When she practically ran out to the terrace with a forgotten order, some lark mimed playing the violin while humming a tune that made the whole table erupt with laughter. It was only when they started addressing Rose as Manuel that she realised it was the theme from Fawlty Towers. Unamused at first, she got her own back by responding with ‘¿Qué?’ every time they asked for something, to uproarious laughter from the group who, when they departed, left a generous tip.
Other patrons were more compassionate: a young French couple with a baby, who were staying locally, helped her pick up cutlery that cascaded off a stack of plates. Three young German backpackers smiled encouragingly and thanked her profusely when she got their order right. She’d set the bar so low at the outset, people became increasingly grateful just to be fed.
Anyway, being front-of-house was preferable to being stuck in the poky, airless kitchen where Fran and Maggie, dripping sweat, worked frantically side by side, chopping, frying and microwaving. Spyros only added to the confusion by arriving in the early afternoon and restocking the kitchen, moving everything around and packing the fridge so densely it was difficult to find anything. It was late afternoon by the time they finished cleaning up. After a quick lunch, it was time to start the prep for dinner. Although Rose’s feet felt like steamed puddings, she also felt invigorated, and Fran felt the same. Maggie looked wrung out but, apart from a comment about her creaking knees, made not a single complaint.
In comparison to lunch, the dinner service was easier. Spyros made out the bills, took the payments, chatted to customers and ordered Rose about – he was the ringmaster to Rose’s clown act. George and Angelos magically reappeared to help with the clean-up.
Spyros and the boys left around ten. Maggie and Fran got the kitchen back in working order and Rose wiped down all the tables thoroughly, ready for the next day. When they were done, they grabbed some beers and leftovers from the fridge and sat out on the terrace in the cool night air.
‘Well, that was not Masterchef,’ said Maggie. ‘But we got through it.’
‘We almost operated like a well-oiled machine,’ said Fran. ‘Nearly nailing it.’
‘Oiled being the operative word,’ said Rose. ‘That kitchen is coated in a thick layer of oil, like it’s covered in greasy cling wrap. A fire would be an inferno. Ka-boom!’
‘Let’s try to not set fire to the place. We don’t want to be charged with arson.’
‘On top of working illegally,’ added Fran. ‘And having an unregistered vehicle.’
‘We’re becoming quite the outlaws,’ said Rose happily. She gazed out over the dark sea. ‘I think this place is a metaphor for life.’
‘Life? Very ambitious,’ said Maggie. ‘Go on.’
‘Out front it’s all neat and tidy, and that’s all most people see.
Behind the scenes, it’s one hot friggin’ mess.’
Maggie laughed. ‘One of your better metaphors, Rosie. Now we’re in the thick of the operations side of things, I’m struggling to remember why this place was so idyllic that summer.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. It wasn’t the place, or the summer,’ said Fran. ‘It was who we were at that time. We’ve been looking for something that doesn’t exist any more: the elusive butterfly of youth.’
‘They were our halcyon days … we just didn’t know it at the time,’ agreed Rose.
Maggie nodded. ‘You’re probably right. And it wasn’t “paradise”. We never noticed how tough life was for Spyros trying to make enough in the summer season to last the whole year. He was just one character in our self-absorbed story.’
‘Yeah,’ said Rose. ‘But, even though it was a shit fight today, I loved being a part of it. It really took me out of myself. If I ignore my sore back and feet right now, I could almost imagine myself as twenty again. It was a blast.’
‘It’s not just my back hurting; every part of me aches,’ said Maggie. ‘But, I know what you’re saying. It was a bit of a blast.’
‘And when do we ever do this?’ asked Fran. ‘Sit by the beach and drink beer with our mates at midnight?’
‘Midnight!’ said Maggie. ‘Come on, let’s get some sleep.’
As they walked home, Rose told the story of the “off chicken” and being called Manuel, and they laughed until they cried. And then they slept.
The restaurant was now the priority and Rose was forced to stop dithering about the exit plan. First thing in the morning she made a call to Prya, and by that evening, their flights from Corfu to Rome had been booked and cash would be waiting for them at the Western Union office in town, a couple of hours’ drive away.
Far from being disapproving about the muddle they had got themselves into, Prya was uncharacteristically excited about the whole adventure. ‘I can’t wait to hear all about it!’ she said. Her enthusiasm and efficiency brought tears to Rose’s eyes and she wondered why she had always been so guarded around Prya; always on her best behaviour. They talked about little Austin who, after shuffling around on his bottom for weeks, had finally got to his feet and taken his first steps. Rose promised to visit as soon as she was home.
They had ten days until their departure and with funds waiting for them in town, there was the option of leaving Agios Papadakis. But they voted unanimously, without hesitation, to stay on and see it through.
A routine soon fell into place: an early-morning swim followed by breakfast on the terrace, with just enough time for a cold bath before taking over from Jocasta and getting organised for the lunch service.
The restaurant was busier each day, and regular customers were now on first-name terms. The French couple were Maud and Julien, and their sweet baby, who was the same age as Austin, was called Ezio. It was fun chatting with these new friends and Rose found her memory improving. She was less forgetful and more efficient. The work was still exhausting but they were all getting eight solid hours of sleep every night.
There was no mirror in the Helipad, and the one in the restaurant bathroom had a strange yellow hue, so Rose had no idea how she looked, but noticed that Fran’s pasty complex
ion had a healthier glow and Maggie was also a new, improved version of herself. Her spiky hair suited her and she’d lost some weight but not too much. Even better, Maggie was restored to her cheerful self of earlier days. As each day passed, she became more confident in managing the kitchen and pacing her work. She had found time to make fresh moussaka in the afternoons and added a lemon chicken dish to the menu. Every night there were the regulars and a few more patrons. It was obvious how pleased she was that people were coming there for her cooking.
Ten days passed in a blur. They were due to leave Agios Papadakis on the Sunday, stay the night in Corfu town where they would pick up the cash, and then fly to Rome on Monday morning.
Saturday was their last night and the Blue Moon had a full house for dinner. News of Maggie’s cooking had already travelled up the hill to the village of Palaka. Spyros had done his shopping and the fridges bulged with food. Rose’s only hope was that they would get through this final service without disgracing themselves and leave on a high note. Angelos and George turned up to help wait tables. Spyros had them on call, and tonight it was all hands on deck.
Rose felt on top of her game. It was fun seeing all the regulars. There was a good buzz and the kitchen was running at peak efficiency. All was well, until the gas burners suddenly went out and everything stopped.
‘Ah, is the gas. Is finish,’ said Spyros without surprise. He beckoned the boys to come out into the backyard and put another of the giant-sized gas bottles in place. Maggie and Fran were in limbo until the oven and stovetop were back in action. After a few minutes, Spyros came in to report that the spare gas bottle was empty and this was Delphine’s fault. He would take the boys to his house to pick up the spare-spare bottle.
The entire service was on hold, dishes half-cooked and going cold. Maggie suggested offering everyone a free drink and putting on some music. Rose went from table to table explaining and apologising. She brought more tzatziki, carrot sticks and pitta bread, and a carafe of retsina for each table. She went through Spyros’s limited CD collection, which consisted almost entirely of Demis Roussos, Nana Mouskouri and movie soundtracks by Vangelis; all very patriotic but not conducive to calming a hungry crowd.
Fifteen minutes later, there was no sign of Spyros. The buzz was a hungry one and the crowd was getting restless and irritable.
‘Come on, Rose. You’re the performer,’ urged Fran. ‘Go out and do a few numbers.’
Rose gave a squeak. Singing in the car or choir, or even a band, was completely different from standing out there naked and alone. Not literally naked but vocally.
Maggie was busy washing up, preparing for the rush. ‘Yeah, Rosie, desperate times. Just distract them. Either sing or get your gear off. Your choice.’
‘You can do it,’ Fran reassured her. ‘This is your time, Rose.’
Terrified as she was, Rose knew she would regret it if she bailed. She could feel herself starting to hyperventilate and forced her breathing to slow down. Bugger the ocean breath. She went behind the bar and poured herself a stiff ouzo. Knocking it back in one made her eyes water and her tongue curl like a cat jettisoning a fur ball. Fran brought her some water and between them they figured out how to switch the sound system over from CD to the microphone that Spyros used for live musicians.
Fran gave her a quick hug. ‘Just relax, Rose. You’ll never see these people again. Be yourself. You’re wonderful.’
Rose’s ears were burning with fear. She took a deep breath into her gut, and then another. Something old. Something easy. Just start. Slightly breathless at first, she launched into the first lines of ‘Hallelujah’, which she had sung countless times with the choir but never like this, a lone voice breaking the silence. There was an encouraging sprinkling of applause at her daring and a few people joined in the chorus. They were willing to be distracted, but not for long.
Feeling more confident, Rose switched it up with ‘Dreadlock Holiday’, and Fran sidled up to sing harmonies. Rose had been worried that her repertoire would dry up or she might forget the lyrics but the beauty of this gig was that it didn’t matter. She could hum, she could fudge, she could screw it up – no one cared. They were just killing time.
By the time she hit the chorus of ‘Gypsy’, she was channelling Stevie Nicks. All fear was dispelled by an intoxicating sense of freedom as her voice barrelled out into the night beyond the light of the terrace, out to the silver sea. For a big finale, she pulled Fran and Maggie in to sing ‘Aquarius’. She and Fran even remembered some of their choreographed moves. It was the song that brought everyone to their feet to dance, clap or drunkenly shout the choruses, partying like it was 1969.
With perfect theatrical timing, Spyros appeared with the boys and walked through the restaurant carrying the full tank, taking all credit for the rapturous applause. Rose wiped her sweaty hands on her apron and took a bow to the calls for an encore, but it was back to work. The gas bottle was installed, food delivered, and Rose spent the rest of the night gracefully accepting compliments. It was a blast beyond blasts.
Everyone had gone and they were ready to close up when a woman walked briskly into the restaurant and introduced herself as Katerina, Spyros’s daughter. She spoke good English and they were able to ask about her new grandchild and what had become of Delphine.
‘We’re very grateful to you for stepping in to help,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know that Delphine had left until I saw her in Athens. I was so angry. I thought she had left her grandfather without help. Of course, there is always someone here who can help out, but not full-time. Thank you.’
Spyros came into the kitchen and bestowed a hug on each of them. ‘Efcharistó! Efcharistó! Efcharistó! You come back again. You can sing, crazy one.’
Katerina calculated how much they were owed and paid them out in cash. Spyros asked what they planned to do with the Beast. He had a van that was smaller and in even worse shape.
‘It’s not registered, but it’s all yours if you want it, Spyros,’ Maggie told him. ‘I can leave the keys with Mrs Heli … your sister tomorrow, when we leave.’
Then they were out in the night. The Beast was gone. The work was done. They had cash in their pockets. They were free. They had everything they needed.
Too wired to sleep, they wandered down to the empty beach. Rose was buzzing, her body tingling; she couldn’t stop talking. ‘What a night! It was like being in our own musical! And Frannie, gimme five, my little bonsai.’ Rose flexed her shoulders and stretched her arms up towards the star-filled sky. Next thing she knew, both hands were planted firmly on the sand, her legs carving a perfect arc through the air.
‘Very impressive, Rose.’ Fran laughed. ‘Didn’t know you still had it in you.’
Rose felt she probably had another cartwheel or two in her but decided to leave it at that.
Maggie silently peeled off her cotton dress and her underwear and walked naked into the water. Rose did the same, diving under the surface, rolling around and immersing every pore, rinsing off the oil and sweat of the night. Fran joined them and they floated together, staring up at the explosion of stars in the sky, each silently meditating on this moment.
After some time, they waded out of the water, dried themselves off and pulled their clothes on. It was late but the night was still warm and the gentle lap of the water the only sound. They sat on the sand and watched small fruit bats pass, silhouetted by the light of the moon.
Maggie broke the silence. ‘I’m dreading going home.’ There was a long silence, followed by a deep sigh. ‘I have a confession to make. I’ve been embezzling the company.’
Rose wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not. It was so unlikely. Maggie was a paragon of honesty. ‘You’re not joking, are you?’
‘I’ve been syphoning off money into a company of which I’m the sole director. Not millions, just a normal salary. A fair amount.’
Rose was confused. ‘How can you embezzle your own company?’
‘It’s not my company. When I started, as you
know, I had a job somewhere else and worked in the family business after hours – to help it get going. Then I ended up working there full-time but I’ve never been paid and I’m not a director.’
‘Have you talked to them about it?’ asked Fran. ‘That seems so unfair.’
‘Of course. Whenever I bring it up, the others object that Kristo and I want to double dip, trying to get more than our share …’
‘But you work in the business,’ said Rose. ‘You and Kristo are doing the work of two people, not one.’
‘That’s not the way they see it. It’s not about individuals. You look at Spyros’s business: family come and go, everyone pitches in to keep it afloat. Kristo and the boys all make good money, they can’t see what my problem is. None of them care that I’m trapped, that I don’t have choices. Why would they? So I decided to take it, without their permission.’
‘Isn’t that the definition of a slave?’ said Rose. ‘Forced to work without payment.’
‘I’m stupid for putting up with it all these years. I’ve got myself in the same position that Mum was in when Dad’s firm went bankrupt. No money of my own.’
‘All I can say is, good for you – embezzle away,’ said Rose. ‘Have you got a Swiss bank account or an offshore tax haven in the Cayman Islands?’
Maggie gave a dry laugh. ‘Nothing as glamorous as that. The least that will happen is I have to return the money to the company. Worst case, they could prosecute me.’
‘Kristo would never let that happen,’ Rose reassured her. Maggie nodded, unconvinced. ‘I’m kind of glad that it’s out.
I’m sick of worrying about it. I was never cut out to be a criminal. I’d love to have a life without secrets. They’re exhausting.’
Rose felt something rise up in her. She had kept a secret close to her heart for thirty-five years, and it had never stopped gnawing away at her. She could never be free of the guilt. Each year that passed only made it worse. If she was ever going to share it, now was the time.
‘I have a confession too,’ Rose said in a rush. ‘It’s much worse than Maggie’s. Much worse because it affects several people’s lives. I did something dishonest. And it’s no one’s fault but mine.’ Her voice became a whisper, dreading having to say the words out loud.
Sixty Summers Page 26