The Ebb

by Effrosyni Moschoudi

  Her grandparents’ house was an old crammed up space just like all the others there, but to Sofia it had the luxuries of a palace and the reverence of a church. Built at the turn of the twentieth century by her great-grandfather, who was both the village priest and teacher at the time, it had for her the sentimental value of a family heirloom. It carried the memories of past summers with her neighbouring aunts, uncles and cousins.

  Her parents hardly visited the island, as they were both busy with their occupations in Athens. Although she loved them dearly, she was always relieved to escape their overprotective care for a couple of months every year. Her grandparents allowed her a bit of extra freedom, which felt like a breath of fresh air to her. Winters at home might have been more fun for her if she had any siblings, but sadly she was an only child and that made matters even worse.

  Maybe this was another reason why Sofia loved her holidays at the village so much. She had many cousins there as well as her best friend Loula. In Vassilaki, she was free to enjoy their company every day, from early morning to late in the evening. The best thing of all however, was that she never had to check her watch or to think someone was worrying over her all the time.

  ***

  The coach had got off the ferry and come to a final stop at the bus station by the port. Sofia had caught the next bus to the village from there. She’d found a seat behind the driver and was now enjoying a generous view of the road up ahead, through the broad, front window.

  The sun made her young face glow with even more excitement now, giving her cheeks a healthy flush and her green eyes a brilliant sparkle. The open window caused her long red hair to flow in the breeze, but she didn’t seem to mind how tousled it was. All she was thinking about now was the moment she would get off the bus. Her excitement grew all the more as the vehicle continued to travel towards the south, along the windy, coastal road.

  When she finally saw the sign of Regent’s Hotel about three quarters of an hour later, she left her seat like a coiled spring. Her eyes sought the village sign at the roadside up ahead, and there it finally was: ‘Vassilaki’. Oh how sweetly the name rang inside her head! She turned behind her to look at it again, to greet it properly for a little longer than the inconsiderate speed of the bus had allowed.

  She picked up her trolley bag from the gangway and stood eagerly by the door. When she asked the driver to make a stop, she sounded a bit out of breath. She craned her neck, peering out of the window against the strong sunshine, as her eyes sought the windy path that led uphill to the old quarter.

  Standing beside her, the young conductor kept giving her appreciative looks, but Sofia didn’t notice. She was remarkably beautiful, and she was aware of it, yet she hadn’t let her good looks go to her head, the way it often happens with extremely pretty girls. If anything, she was quite timid, especially around boys. This was largely owed to the fact that the only boys she ever associated with were the ones she knew from school or university. Outside classes, she rarely socialised even with them.

  Moments later, she was standing with her luggage at the roadside. As soon as the bus set off with a grunt, she looked around with a broad smile on her face. The brightness in her eyes then, could have lit up the darkest corner of the world. Another summer in heaven had just begun. Without further ado, she turned on her heels and took the familiar uphill path.

  Chapter 3

  Sofia made her way to the top of the hill, ignoring the shrill squeaking from her luggage wheels. All she could hear was the heavy singing from the cicadas as she went past the whitewashed village houses. They stood closely and peacefully together, like dear old friends in the midst of lemon orchards and clusters of olive trees, on both sides of the road.

  When she finally reached the tiny village square, she wiped the beads of sweat from her brow. The uphill path had been as tiring as she remembered it, but the destination had made it all worthwhile as usual. Mrs Angelina was watering the pots in her yard at the time. She recognised Sofia and raised an arm to welcome her. The voice of Mrs Lopi echoed loudly from next door as she called her grandson to come in from the street to eat. Sofia watched as the small child left the company of two little boys and rushed through the arched doorway; it stood in the shade of a bright pink bougainvillea, the sight picture-perfect.

  Sofia felt the warmth of familiarity bloom inside her heart. It was wonderful to reunite with this precious part of the world she had been missing for months on end. Just as she was about to clutch the handle of her luggage for the last few yards, she heard Mrs Danda’s voice.

  “Welcome, Sofia!” The kindly woman was skinny and ruddy-cheeked, like most women in the village. She was sitting at a plastic white table on her veranda, rubbing dry oregano off the stalks and onto a sheet of newspaper. Next to it, a large glass jar was half full of the delicious-smelling herb.

  “Hello, Mrs Danda! How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you. My Loula mentioned you were coming today! Agie Spyridona, how you’ve grown! You’ve got taller since last year! How are your parents?”

  “They’re well, thank you. Is Loula around?”

  “No, psyche mou! She’s working at the beach. Didn’t she say? She’s waitressing at Karavi this year, at your cousin’s taverna.”

  “Yes, I know. She did write that she works with Akis now, but I didn’t realise she worked mornings too.”

  “Oh yes, all day. In the mornings she serves drinks at the bar, and when Akis leaves the kitchen at lunchtime, he mans the bar, and she waits on the tables.”

  “Oh, I see.” Sofia gave a thin smile, then pressed her lips together. She had hoped to have her best friend all to herself in the mornings.

  “She works long hours but she loves it. My Loula has waited for a long time for this, bless her heart!”

  Sofia smiled again, this time genuinely. She knew exactly what the kind lady meant to say. Mrs Danda had been widowed at the age of twenty-five. She had raised her daughter on her own, working hard to make ends meet. Loula had insisted to get a job this summer in order to help pay the bills. Her mother still worked in the evenings as a cook at Regent’s hotel but thanks to her daughter, she didn’t have to work as a maid too in the odd guesthouse this year. Loula was thrilled to help out at last, and she’d written to Sofia with enthusiasm in her last letter, telling her all about it.

  Sofia gave Mrs Danda a wave and went on her way, approaching the small square. The plane tree that stood in its midst pulled her there like a magnet. The first thing she noticed was that the village children had made a new makeshift swing with rope and a sturdy plank of wood. It hung low from one of the tree’s mighty boughs. She gave it a long, nostalgic glance and headed for the rustic, municipal tap.

  The long spout hovered over a stone basin where two large leaves from the tree floated peacefully on the stagnant water. She turned the tap on and stooped to have a few gulps of the icy cold water that came from local mountain springs. As she drank, the leaves overhead rustled in the breeze, and she felt her heart bloom with joy.

  Having had her fill, she made for the trunk where she had left her luggage. The carvings of various initials and dates were etched deep in the tree trunk, but the tree stood thankful. People had left them there in the hope to find them again at another point in time. The tree told their story, and time had allowed the markings to stay indelible on its flesh. Sofia ran her fingers tenderly over them and once again moved on, this time in a hurry. She was so close now to home that she couldn’t wait any longer.

  She crossed herself but didn’t stop before the church with the tall belfry that stood at the edge of the square. She quickened her pace even more, galloping past the priest’s house. The kitchen window was open, and the delicious aroma of tomato sauce hung in the air outside. Ignoring the protesting shrieks from the luggage wheels, she turned the corner and sped along a narrow lane past the old cemetery.

  The houses along this street were among her favourites in the village. They were built on the side of the hill, offering a g
enerous sea view. They were oddly beautiful despite the fact that the relentless winters with the salty winds had chipped away all the paint on the external walls. Proper renovation was a costly and frequent necessity that most of the villagers couldn’t afford. The demise was evident on them all, but there were touches here and there that Sofia always thought added to their unique character, granting them beauty, regardless. That included the mossy roof tiles and the makeshift flowerpots made of feta cheese and olive oil tin cans.

  Even the frayed, nylon clothes lines that hung bare, and the rusty chicken wire that served as the outside fence, couldn’t mar the picture of perfection that those houses made up in Sofia’s eyes. The most endearing thing of all to her about them, was the fact that they seemed to have shrunk somewhat over the years. Of course, she knew that was impossible, and often thought how odd it was that in her childhood memories they seemed much larger than today.

  She hurried past the last house and turned left to another lane. A lonely lemon tree stood at the corner. She threw a tender glance at it, as if meeting an old friend, but didn’t break her stride. She was almost there now. She took another turn, and there she was at last, standing at her grandparents’ whitewashed front yard. Although she knew it was only her excitement, she felt like the colours of the world had suddenly turned more vibrant than before.

  She took a few moments in the silence to look around, to compare the yard for any changes since the previous summer, but she was pleased to find that as always, there were none.

  The same plastic table and chairs stood before the wall, waiting to be of use towards midday at ouzo time, or at the end of the day when the evening mist crept down from the mountains, chilling the air.

  The pots all around her were as she remembered them too. As well as the usual flowers, her grandfather was growing peppers, tomatoes, and cucumbers again this year. No doubt, he had refrained from harvesting the vegetable plants in the last few days. He knew Sofia loved to do that herself in order to make salad.

  On the far end, through large cracks in the concrete, the fertile earth had yielded spearmint, purslane and wild rocket. The pots had just been watered, judging from the welcoming smell of the soil and the pools of water on the ground here and there. Water still ran from under the pots. The leaves of the geraniums glistened with water drops that resembled tiny beads of crystal.

  “Yiayia! Pappou!” shouted Sofia. “Gran! Granddad!”

  Sofia’s name echoed in immediate response from the inside of the house and, like sprightly children, her grandparents emerged from the front door, wide-eyed with excitement.

  Sofia rushed to them and fell into their arms, receiving kisses on her cheeks and forehead.

  Her grandparents’ eyes filled with tears, with tiny water droplets; like those on their pots in the yard. Just as they had left their vegetable plants intentionally un-harvested for Sofia, thus they had waited until then for her to harvest from their eyes the sight of their tears, their love, the most precious fruit of their hearts.

  Chapter 4

  1937

  Meg’s earlier descriptions had been quite accurate. Laura stood together with her at the edge of Regency Square, facing the West Pier. It was exactly as she had imagined it to be. It was simply magnificent, a jewel of the Brighton seafront.

  It was so impressive to the eye that one could barely spare a moment to throw a glance at the Palace Pier that stretched into the sea in the distance. Although that one was far better maintained, the West Pier was undeniably superior in grandeur with its two prominent buildings; the Pavilion at the head and the Concert Hall right in the middle. Their rooftops glinted in the afternoon sunlight, the effect mesmerising.

  During the delicious welcome lunch that Meg had served Laura and her mother earlier on, she had spoken about the many fun features on the Pier. It was all there, just as she had described it in every detail: the bathing station and the landing stages at the Pier head, the amusement arcade near the root end, and in between, the various kiosks and stalls, the sketching artists, the shooting booths, the motor track and so much more. The Pier seemed to have it all in terms of entertainment and fun. What’s more, its promenade offered the unique opportunity to breathe in the wholesome sea air while stretching one’s legs.

  Laura had met Maggie when she came home from work. She was a soft-spoken, rather chatty local girl, who seemed far too young to own a house. Yet, during the conversation, as if she had imagined the mystification of her guests about this fact, she had offered the information that both her parents had passed away. This was her family house where she had grown up.

  Meg needed to be at her post in only half an hour and had taken Laura along to ask around for a job. The route they had followed from the house was easy enough to remember, and Laura was confident she would be able to find her way back easily on her own afterwards.

  “Let’s hurry and ask my boss first!” said Meg as soon as they went through the turnpike at the Pier base. “He’s responsible for the employment of staff at the stalls on this end. If he has nothing to offer, there’s someone else we could ask further down,” she added as she led the way through the crowd.

  “No, I’m afraid there’s nothing at the moment,” said the tall, broad-shouldered man whom Meg presented as her boss. Although he was quite stocky, he lacked the confident looks of men his size and figure. Instead, he seemed rather unsure of himself, and he regarded Laura with sympathetic eyes and a general air of humility.

  Thanking him and promising to come back soon to start work, Meg rushed Laura through what seemed like a maze of kiosks. Leaving the impressive Concert Hall behind, they strode towards the Pavilion. Rushing past the theatre’s grand entrance, Meg motioned for Laura to follow her inside a busy tearoom. Once there, she led her further into the kitchen through a door that bore a large sign: ‘Service staff only’.

  “Good evening, Mr Fern!” Meg said breezily stopping before a large, middle-aged man. He was sitting at a small desk in the far corner of the room writing in a ledger. As soon as her excited chirp reached his ears, he lifted his greying head to peer at the girls over his glasses.

  Mr Fern put his pen down with a bright smile and a jovial laugh. “Hello pet! What brings you here? Missed my tea, did you?”

  “A favour, Mr Fern!”

  “What can I do you for, my darling?”

  “This is my friend, Laura Mayfield. She’s just come to town with her mother Ruth.”

  The man stood up with a benevolent look in his eyes and offered his hand to Laura. “Nice to meet you, young lady.”

  Laura shook his hand and smiled politely. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

  “Come to enjoy life by the sea in our beautiful Brighton? Good for you!”

  “Yes, I believe I have.”

  “Where are you from, if I may ask?”

  “London. Somehow, I had never been to the seaside till today.”

  “Really? How odd! I can't imagine life without the sea. It seems to run in our veins around here.” He gave a hearty laugh, and his ruddy cheeks glowed red. Other than his extremely kindly face, there was nothing else exceptional about him. He was a rather large, yet plain-looking man in a dark grey suit and a striped pinafore. You wouldn’t look at him twice if he passed you in the street. And yet, his jolly attitude made him instantly likeable and worth noticing.

  “How fortunate for you. From what I’ve seen so far, Brighton is wonderful. And the West Pier is such a grand place!”

  “That it is, my dear girl! Although believe me, our Pier has seen better days.”

  Laura arched her brows. “Better than this?”

  “Oh, yes indeed! There was a time when it used to welcome two million visitors annually! We’re lucky to have as few as seven hundred thousand in any given year these days.”

  “Really?”

  Mr Fern shook his head forlornly. “Oh yes! But that’s the Great War for you. And of course, the world is changing in general. People want different things now. Who knows?”


  “Anyway, Mr Fern,” interrupted Meg for whom time was pressing, “We were wondering if you might be needing any new staff.”

  “Are you looking for work, my darling?”

  “Yes sir, indeed I am.”

  Mr Fern rubbed at his chin. “Actually, only this morning, one of my waitresses made sounds about leaving soon…”

  “Did she?” interrupted Meg, giving Laura an encouraging squeeze on the arm.

  “Oh yes, it was something about her relatives up north needing help with their store. I can try to get a definite answer out of her. If she’s going, then by all means, you can take her place. That is, if you have any relevant experience?”

  “Oh! I’ve never worked in a tearoom I’m afraid, but I’ve worked behind the counter at a bakery in London for three years. Does that count?” Laura cringed at the thought of receiving a negative answer, but she didn’t want to lie, especially to a kind man like that.

  “Young lady, if you’ve served the public before, it doesn’t matter what kind of work you’ve done. A tearoom, a bakery, it’s all the same! People coming in at random from the street are the most unpredictable customers one can ever have. You get all sorts, don’t you? Rich and poor, young and old, gentlemen and brutes, clever ones and idiots, sane and mad ones – the list goes on. I’m guessing you’ve met them all already. Or am I wrong?” Chuckling, he gave her a wink.

  Laura giggled in response, encouraged by his laughing eyes. “Oh yes, I believe I have!”

  “All right, it’s settled then! I’ll talk to my waitress at closing time tonight. Come back tomorrow morning, my dear girl. I’ll let you know definitely then if I can help.”

  “Thank you so much!” replied Laura.

  “We’re ever so grateful, Mr Fern,” said Meg as they turned to go.

  “Don’t worry, my darlings. Even if it turns out I can't help you, I know someone else who can.”