The Boy Who Hugs Trees

by Dougie McHale

  ‘I’ve heard of that.’

  ‘It’s a nice resort, but it gets busy in the summer.’

  Motorbikes, driven by helmetless males, weave dangerously through the traffic. They pass a basketball court and enter a residential area, where the vegetation thickens and courtyards sprinkled with pots and vases, palm trees and vines appear often. Adam notices a lemon tree or orange tree; from his viewpoint, it’s difficult to decide which. He senses they are entering the suburbs of Corfu Town, as the mustard and white exterior of houses, a motorcycle shop, a kitchen store and several boutiques appear. They pass advertising boards and shop fronts with Greek lettering; as yet, he hasn’t seen an English word. This is definitely not a tourist area he thinks to himself.

  ‘Has the house changed much over the years?’

  ‘Just cosmetic changes really. It’s pretty much the same since mum and dad bought it, although we do have all the mod cons, flat screen televisions, the internet, it’s not all stuck in the 70’s. The building itself has been renovated several times since it was first built. We have a pool now. We put that in several years ago for Dylan. I’m looking forward to doing the place up. It’s overdue really. Theresa does her best when were not there. I’ve neglected the house. We haven’t stayed as much as we used to, which is a shame. Life gets in the way I suppose.’

  ‘It has a habit of doing that.’

  On the left, a small church comes into view and scores of white crosses in a cemetery. They come to a crossroads where, for the first time, Adam sees a shop sign in English, ‘DVD Planet.’ They turn left, the length of the road packed on each side with parked cars. Here, the buildings are three floors high, the traffic heavier, nudging itself through the streets. A graffiti wall, letters bold and large, border the road where it widens and Adam feels a sense of space again. Now the buildings do not crowd in on them, they look cosmopolitan, with their glass fronts and neat displays. The expanse of the sky is more visible here, as they pass Intersport and Mothercare, brands familiar to him, a reminder of home. The buildings thin out as the road to Palaoikastritsa evolves into two lanes, over a murky canal where traffic lights loom overhead. They skirt the coast and Adam catches sight of the sea.

  ‘Do you visit every summer?’ Adam asks.

  ‘Sometimes, but we also come in the spring if we can. Corfu is beautiful in the spring. It’s a shame people don’t visit as much then. It virtually explodes with colour. Mum and Dad would often visit at Easter. It’s a shame we’ve missed it.’

  ‘I’ve heard Easter is more important than Christmas in Greece.’

  ‘It’s a special time. Bands and choirs play in the streets, epitaphs are paraded. I love the traditions, it’s also a time for families. Corfiots are big on family.’

  Further along, the road swings inland. Here the traffic is lighter and at times they have the road to themselves for miles.

  For a time, they journey in silence. Adam, aware that the pause in their conversation has not elicited any strained or awkward side effect, is content to take in his new surroundings. His online research helped him form an impression of the island, but now, he truly appreciates the intensity of light that immerses him in pine and cypress, draping the landscape like a vast carpet. Now and again, a shaded olive grove sucks him into the loops and twists of their trunks. He senses that amongst the trees, the air is sweet, still and becalmed.

  The mountainous landscape undulates, mile after mile, in a thick cloak of emerald trees, where they pass the occasional farmhouse and villa, ancient groves and modern rent-a-bike-car signs.

  ‘We’re coming into Palaoikastitsa.’ Georgia smiles.

  Tavernas became more populous. At the bottom of a steep path, Adam catches sight of his first swimming pool, shaped like the sole of a shoe. Suddenly, from behind a wooded hill, the sea appears. They drive past hotels, set off from the road.

  The road now hugs the coast, as do the indigenous “Spiros” apartments and tavernas, where the turquoise sea melts into verdant headlands and sandy shores.

  ‘We’re almost there,’ Georgia announces. ‘The views are amazing, aren’t they? There’s a track that leads from the house to the beach. We often go there for a swim and a picnic.’

  He is reluctant to move his gaze from the landscape. A thought enters him; Corfu looks as if a great quantity of green paint has spilt and gradually soaked into the fabric of the landscape.

  The car twists and turns along roads and miniature streets, that weave upwards, through a village, until giving way to a single track, flanked by arching trees, where leaning branches make a canopy under which the sun’s light spears the dust. To his delight, he can still see the sea and a sheltered bay below them.

  A thicket of knots swells in his stomach, a growing combustion of excitement and hesitation. He wonders how the house will look. Georgia has not given him a photograph; his imagination has formed an image in its absence. He has tried to locate the house with ‘Google Street View’ but the image ends at the track they have just left. As the car swings to the left, it enters an opened iron gate between a stone wall, each fixed stone, pieced together in a masonry jigsaw, crowned in red and orange bougainvillaea.

  ‘Here we are. From the terrace, you can see the sea.’ Georgia brings the car to a stop.

  An array of Ionian blue shutters illuminates the stone façade of the house. It looks better than he imagined.

  Adam can see an elderly woman on the covered terrace. She is preparing a table and as she looks up, she waves.

  ‘We won’t be long Theresa; I’ll show Adam to his room.’

  They enter a large welcoming hall that leads off into a spacious high ceilinged living room.

  ‘I’ll show you around first, so you know where everything is.’

  Each room has beamed ceilings, solid tiled floors and French windows. Again, it’s just as Adam imagined it would be, rustic on the outside but modern and voluminous inside.

  His room is pleasingly spacious and air conditioned.

  ‘We put the aircon in some years ago; it makes such a difference in the summer months. I’ll let you get settled, lunch is just about ready. I’ll see you when you come out.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll just freshen up and change this.’ He pulls at his shirt.

  His is the only bedroom on the ground floor, the rest are upstairs. In his room, he finds a double bed and a large oak wardrobe. He crosses to a writing desk with many compartments; he opens one but finds it empty. The bathroom has a shower with glass screens, toilet and a handbasin, above which sits a large mirror, small blue tiles cover the walls and a supply of soap and shampoo fill a woven basket.

  He slides open glass doors and walks out onto the terrace that seems to wrap around most of the house. It is then he notices his part of the house has been an addition at some point in time, complementing the older part of the house in design and materials. He can see mature pines, multicoloured oleanders and bougainvillaea. The air is still and he can feel the sun on his face. He goes back inside and unpacks. Once he has washed and changed he moves through the house, taking in the furniture and ornaments; most are modern, imposing Georgia’s character and style into each part of the house. The house feels large and spacious; the rooms are wide, with an open feel to them, each one a continuation of the other, but each with a distinct feel of the individual character.

  ‘So, he is finally here.’ Theresa says, mixing a salad. ‘Poor Dylan he will have to start his lessons now. No more playing in the pool for him.’

  Theresa is a spritely woman, with a handsome face that defies her advancing years. Her posture is erect, statuesque even, she gestures with wide flowing arms to emphasise her words.

  Georgia sits in a chair and takes a sip of lemonade. ‘Actually, I’ve suggested Adam takes a few days to get settled in before he starts to teach Dylan.’

  ‘Good. Is he joining us?’

  ‘I hope so; he said he was hungry. It would be rude to start without him.’

  ‘Sorry, I hope you weren’
t waiting on me I decided to unpack.’

  ‘This is Theresa, Adam.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Theresa.’

  ‘I hope you can find something you like?’ Theresa gestures towards the table.

  ‘I won’t starve. It looks lovely.’

  ‘We won’t stand on graces. Please sit, Adam.’

  ‘Is Dylan joining us?’ Adam asks.

  ‘He’s already eaten, about an hour ago.’

  ‘I’ll get going Georgia; I’m picking up Yanis and Effrosyni from school. A grandparent’s work is never done.’

  ‘So it’s just the two of us then.’ Adam suppresses a smile.

  ‘I had lunch with Dylan.’ Theresa smiles. ‘It was nice to meet you, Adam. See you tomorrow Georgia.’ She kisses Georgia on the cheek and says goodbye in Greek. ‘Andio sas.’

  She scoops up her bag and, at an athletic pace, heads towards the gate.

  Georgia tells Adam Theresa is like an aunt to her; as a child she called her, Thia Theresa.

  ‘The food looks amazing.’

  Georgia smiles. ‘Theresa is a wonderful cook. Here we have chopped tomato and cucumber salad with mint and feta, this here is gemista, stuffed peppers and tomatoes with rice, flat bread with hummus and green pea fava and last, but not least, grilled aubergine with halloumi.’

  Adam smiles to himself; these were the moments he has dreamed of, dared to imagine even.

  ‘I’ve got some lesson plans for you to look at.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary just yet. I’m sure they’ll be fine. I thought we could introduce Dylan to the lessons gradually and then increase the time each day.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s the best way.’

  ‘Good. Until then, you’ll have some extra free time.’

  Adam nods; he plays with his food.

  ‘I thought you were hungry. Are you ok?’

  ‘There’s something I need to ask you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It concerns your husband.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘The thing is, I feel uncomfortable that he’s not here. I’ve not met him yet, but here I am, about to stay with his family and teach his son.’

  ‘I can see your point,’ Georgia says as she pulls her hand through her hair.

  ‘I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. Look, I’m not expecting you to explain the situation, it’s none of my business, but it has bothered me. I just thought you should know, that’s all.’

  ‘No, you’re right. I can see what you mean.’ She lightly scratches her forearm. ‘I’m afraid it’s an occupational hazard these protracted separations. Over time we’ve both become used to it. Do you feel you might be pouring oil on troubled waters, Adam?’ Georgia raises her glass and smiles at him. ‘Well, you can find out for yourself. Stephen arrives tomorrow.’

  Chapter 14

  Elena’s Vegetable Thieves

  In the privacy of his room, Adam finishes unpacking. He turns on the laptop he has now placed on the desk, inserts a USB key and opens a folder. Adam has everything he needs, the materials, handouts and lesson plans. He will also rely on the internet and a printer… he needs to ask Georgia about that. She said there was a printer, but its a few years old. Adam closes the laptop.

  He opens the glass doors and steps outside, where he is struck by the continuous tempo of stridulating cicadas. Adam decides to take a walk in the garden and even there the sound is pervasive.

  It is a large garden and well maintained. He doesn’t know the names of the many flowers but if he did, he would know that there were roses, marigolds, pansies and bougainvillaea. There is a herb and vegetable garden. Earlier, at lunch, Georgia told him that Theresa had planted a variety of herbs: basil, mint, thyme, chives, rosemary, and sage, all of which season the food they eat. The air is impregnated with their aroma. He notices artichokes, broad green beans and courgettes. A butterfly flutters past him. At the end of the garden, there is an olive grove; amongst its pathways Anemones, wild Tulips, Irises and Bluebells litter the ground, soon to wither in the summer heat. He is amazed to see tangerine trees; underfoot a Moorish Gecko scuttles under a rock. Beyond the garden, the hills are covered in Fig trees, Eucalyptus, Holme oak and, sprinkled here and there, Cypress tower towards the sky.

  From where he stands, through the intervening trees and shrub, about a dozen goats are foraging in the vegetable garden. Adam claps loudly. Several goats, mildly distracted, raise their heads and consider him for a moment. Others, unperturbed, ignore Adam and continue to eat. Adam moves towards them, flapping his hands over head, he shouts at them and ponders his next move, as his efforts are treated with disdain, a minor irritation by the majority of the group. He looks past them, ‘God there’s more,’ he sighs, as other goats encroach here and there and, annoyed at his lack of success, he reassesses the situation. Adam moves closer, sensing the need to escalate his approach. He considers lobbing a volley of rocks into their midst, but then thinks it a step too far. As he draws nearer, he continues to flap his arms and shout like a deranged madman and, as each second passes, the goats continue to linger, almost sedated by their occupation of pillaging the vegetables. One goat in particular, larger than the rest, grunts aggressively and turns to face him. Fearing a physical confrontation, he bends and scoops up a rock, when suddenly a tirade of indistinguishable words is barked from the trees.

  An old woman appears, hunched over a crooked walking stick. She hobbles down the small embankment and makes her way around the goats, prodding each one with her stick, encouraging them to move back up to the small track they have come. The aggressive goat ignores the old woman, who twists her wrist and with the accuracy of a sword fencer slices her stick through the air, in an arc, and strikes the goat’s rump. It gives out a painful cry and hurtles towards the others. The old woman turns and, with yellow stalagmite teeth, she scowls at Adam and grunts what sounds like a curse. She hauls herself back up the embankment, where the goats are huddled along a dusty track.

  Adam stands for some time watching them, relieved to see the goats disappear. The smell of flower and herb still fresh, he looks towards the house and sees Dylan jumping into the pool. He wonders if the boy will resent Adam being at the house, knowing his carefree existence is about to end.

  ‘Hello Dylan, it’s nice to see you again.’

  Dylan pulls himself from the pool. Adam notices how skinny he appears.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Did you see the goats and that old woman?’ Adam asks.

  ‘Yes, you looked funny waving your arms about.’

  ‘They were eating the vegetables. How often does that happen?’

  ‘I don’t know. Mum has spoken to the woman but the goats still come back. The last time we were here, Dad shot at them and killed one. He says he was just trying to scare them.’

  ‘That’s a bit drastic.’

  ‘The police came and took it away.’

  ‘I see. Are you enjoying your stay so far?’

  ‘It’s good.’

  ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘Nothing much.’ Dylan shrugs.

  ‘The pool looks lovely, is it warm?’

  ‘It is now.’

  ‘Oh, was it cold?’

  ‘The sun heats it up like a thermostat.’

  Adam smiles. ‘That’s a good way of putting it. Oh, by the way, your mum’s told me we don’t need to start the lessons straight away. We can start in a few days’ time.’

  Dylan wraps a towel around himself. ‘Ok.’

  ‘You’ve met our vegetable thieves then.’ Georgia is walking towards them from the house.

  ‘Ah, the goats.’

  ‘I see you had the pleasure of meeting the delightful Elena,’ Georgia says, in a sarcastic tone. ‘I saw you from the upstairs balcony.’

  ‘She was scary.’

  ‘It’s been a long dispute. Elena insists she has the right of way and can take her goats through our garden if she wishes. It all goes back to the time Mum and Dad bo
ught the house. According to the deeds, that part of the land belongs to the house. Elena disputes this, saying that for generations it was used for grazing animals. Such traditions are built in stone apparently. For years it’s never been an issue, Mum and Dad never used that land, so they never disputed it, the old tradition carried on and everyone was happy. Unfortunately, as you saw, some people don’t recognise our right to use the land as we see fit. Elena insists she is perfectly within her right to let her goats eat my vegetables.’

  ‘Disharmony in paradise.’ Adam smiles.

  ‘I told him about the dead goat,’ Dylan says.

  ‘Ah yes, we had several meetings with our lawyer after that. Things got a bit nasty for a while before settling down thankfully. The lawyer says we could prosecute if we wanted to but what would that achieve. Stephen is all for it of course. I don’t want to make enemies. Mum lived happily here for all those years; it was a home to her. I want to continue that legacy and be accepted, not ostracised.

  Adam scratches his chin, he needs to shave. ‘Why don’t you build a fence?’

  ‘I thought about that but the local joiner is Elena’s nephew, I’d have to get someone who doesn’t live in the village, or do it myself.’

  ‘I don’t mind doing it.’

  ‘It's fine, Stephen will sort something out.’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t mind. I just need the materials.’

  ‘Are you sure? There’s wood and things in the outhouse, they’ve been gathering dust for years. I’m sure there’ll be nails and tools as well.’

  ‘There you go then. It’s not a big job. What if I just fence off the vegetables, make it high enough so that the goats can’t get access to them and make a gate too, that’s if we can find hinges and screws?’

  ‘Handyman wasn’t part of your job description.’

  ‘No, but it’ll make me feel useful and hopefully solve your problem.’

  The door creaks open, throwing a patch of light into the dim interior of the outhouse. Inside, the air is sultry and a musk smell lays heavy around them. Through the wood –panelled walls, spears of light diffuse through dust, disclosing shelves filled with jars and crammed with all sorts of screws and nails. Pillars of paint, varnish and old oil tins lean against each other, rusting and peeling. Boxes gather dust, their contents undisturbed for years. Adam notices an archaic lawnmower and three bicycles leaning against each other. Instinctively, he presses a tyre which softens to his touch, deflated of air, with the lack of use. Towards the far wall, a pile of wood is neatly stacked.