by Sara Alexi
'Yes, but to collapse like that!' Georgia says.
'I could have understood it if it had rained.' Stella selects a strawberry from a pile on the nearest stall and eats it. She throws the green stalk on the ground and tells the lady serving she will have a kilo. The woman scoops up the strawberries with a small handheld aluminium scoop and pours them into a paper bag on the scales that hang from the awning above her stall.
'So when you say it has collapsed, do you mean it has actually collapsed or that there is a hole there?' Juliet asks.
'Collapsed,' Stella says, paying for the strawberries and then offering them round as if they are sweets. 'They have put some metal poles to prop the roof up until it can be fixed. Oh, what time is it? I need to get back. Anyone need a lift?' She twists the corners of the bag to stop the strawberries falling out.
'If we can stop for a bag of good potting compost on the way back,' Georgia says.
Juliet watches the two ladies march off towards Stella’s car, chatting all the way, and turns to buy her own bag of strawberries.
'Sweeter than drops of sugar,' the stallholder tells her.
Strawberries were not on her list, but Stella’s tasted wonderful, and of course they are so good for her. 'Full of antioxidants,' she says, and she moves on to the next stall.
At the back of her mind she makes a mental note to slow down as she enters the village on the way back, to see how much of the school has really collapsed. Stella’s description did sound a little overly dramatic.
Poppy doesn't much like taking the bus into Saros but the vegetables are so much cheaper than in the corner shop in the village, and the choice is so much greater, that it is worth making the effort to come. It is also the only real excuse she has for closing the shop and seeing something other than her own four walls. Sitting all day in the shop is making her old and fat. Walking around the market is about all the exercise she gets, and she knows it is not good enough, but then it is better than nothing. Her joints creak and walking is an effort now. She has only to look at Thanasis the donkey breeder and others in the village who must be about her age to know how out of condition she is. He skips all over the place, thinks nothing of walking to and from his place beyond the outskirts of the village to the kafenio each day. Perhaps several times a day.
So, once in Saros, she always makes a point of visiting a number of shops as well as the market stalls, and she invariably has a good rummage through the piles of clothes that the gypsies sell, at the far end of the market, near the town hall and the open-air cinema. She has picked up some great bargains there that sold quickly, with a nice little markup, in her shop.
The bus stop is next to the chemist’s, where today she buys a bottle of iodine, which is always good to have in the house, and she also calls in at the vet, who gives her drops for Grey Maulkin’s ears. Then she decides she will go across to the market and get some fruit and vegetables, leaving the clothes until last, before walking the length of the street back to the bus stop. Outside the vet’s place the traffic flows but cars and trucks are parked on either side of the pavement. It is a tricky road to cross, with the cars here even faster than in the village. Every time she thinks there is a gap in the traffic something else appears at great speed.
Juliet has dropped her watermelon and potatoes off at the car and now she has moved on to herbs. She wants fresh parsley, dill and some of the small celery leaves that are so good in soups. After that, she could go for a coffee in the town square, but really she should get back and translate the document that the estate agent sent her. It’s important to maintain a reputation for being quick. Also, once she is back in the village it might be a good time, she muses, to go round to Poppy's again. Although, did she really do anything wrong? She recalls her earlier thoughts about the British and their tendency to apologise. Maybe it is about time she stopped saying sorry for everything and just accepted the fact that she is human and that humans do not always get it right.
As if fate wants to prove the inevitable, a woman pushes past her, bumping Juliet’s knees with her bag of potatoes.
'Sorry,' Juliet mutters. It is a reflex; she cannot help it, conditioned since birth to forever apologise. The woman with the potatoes carries on, completely unaware.
Juliet sighs and selects two lettuces, because they look so crisp and fresh, and a bunch of dill and one of parsley. Maybe if she focuses on not being so hard on herself she can at least stop professing guilt as a reflex?
She makes her way back to the car to offload her next lot of shopping. And just as these thoughts cross her mind, there, across the road, is Poppy. It is obvious she is struggling to cross the road and Juliet hurries to rid herself of her purchases so she can go and help her. She waves a hand to attract Poppy’s attention, to let her know she is on the way to help.
Poppy sees Juliet waving and takes her focus off the cars on the road. Just at this moment, Juliet sees the motorbike. Poppy does not, and she steps into the road. Brakes screech and time seems to slow down. Juliet watches the bike perform a slow-motion ballet. First, it leans away from Poppy. The back wheel of the bike comes level with the front wheel. Then it twists and the bike wheels take the lead, the seat tipped backward, scraping the ground. The rider’s black visor obscures his face and his fists are tight on the handles, knuckles white. And in that second, when there should be nothing but panic and horror, a calm part of Juliet’s brain registers, almost as a casual observation, how unusual it is for the rider to wear a helmet at all in Greece. Then the horror returns as the wheels slide across the tarmac, dark smoke rising up behind them, leaving black strips on the road surface. The man on the bike grips his brake lever. At the very last moment, Poppy sees the bike, sees her fate, but the shock does not have time to register on her face. Her front leg is taken from under her. The bike now blocks Juliet’s view as Poppy falls backward, as does the man on the bike, and then time speeds up again.
Juliet’s heart races, the blood in her temples thumps. Her lettuces and herbs are dropped and her legs are in action before she has looked both ways on the road, but all traffic has stopped now and the way is clear. She is beside Poppy within seconds. The old woman is on her back and for a second Juliet can see that her eyes are not registering anything. There is nothing there, no focus.
Is that it? Juliet’s mind races. One minute life, the next none? All because I raised my hand. Her heart pounds inside her chest. She has killed someone. She has taken a life. With a lift of her hand. That's all it took and now there is nothing.
Chapter 5
Peering deep into Poppy’s eyes, Juliet hopes for a light. Her chest feels like it is collapsing inwards, shrivelling, towards her heart. The grief wells up and tightens her throat and then, just as quickly, the knot is gone. Her chest expands with a surge of relief, the likes of which she could not have imagined, as the crinkled old eyelids blink.
'Oh, thank God!' Juliet exhales.
A crowd has gathered around, pressing in behind her.
'What happened?' someone asks. People are touching her; a knee presses into her back as the crowd pushes forward.
'Who is it?' Someone else leans over. The sunlight is almost eclipsed by heads craning to see.
'Do we need a doctor?' a practical voice asks.
'Poppy, can you hear me?' Juliet says, but Poppy does not seem to recognise her or where she is; she just lies there passively.
A wall of legs surrounds them now, and faces peer from above. Juliet has Poppy's head resting on one arm, her other across the old woman’s chest, comforting, holding her here in the land of the living.
'She is your mama?' someone enquires.
Juliet's clarity returns after the feeling of relief, and she looks Poppy up and down. There is a gash down her leg that is bleeding quite badly, but, worse than that, Juliet is sure she can feel wet on her arm behind the woman’s head. Don't they say it’s best not to move them? Yet she must have moved her already, to be holding her like she is. Has she done more damage? The tears c
ome but are ignored.
'Poppy, can you hear me?' Juliet repeats, but gains no response. The old woman is blinking and looking around as if nothing is registering.
'I have my car here, we will carry her and take her. The hospital is only there,' someone says. Juliet knows where the hospital is but she shakes her head.
'We must not move her. Call an ambulance,' she demands.
'She'll be fine,' someone else says.
'Call an ambulance!' Juliet repeats, addressing the crowd in general.
'It is done,' a familiar voice says, and as Juliet looks up, first she sees the helmet in one hand and then a mobile phone in the other; then her gaze travels up the long legs, over the white shirt, to the man’s face. The sight of Miltos’s features could not be more welcome and her tears flow in response; but then she registers the helmet, his position by the bike.
‘You!' is the first word that comes out, and for some reason she feels angry at him – for hitting Poppy, for being involved … She doesn't know why, really, she just does. Then comes the horror, the realisation of what might have been.
'Are you hurt?' She looks him up and down. The elbow of his shirt is torn and the white is spotted with blood. 'You are bleeding.'
He turns his arm to look and dismisses it as if it is of no consequence, then he crouches at the other side of Poppy.
'I think her head might be bleeding. I can feel wet,' Juliet says quietly in English, hoping that Poppy won’t hear, if she is at all aware.
'Did she lose consciousness?' Miltos asks.
'Her eyes sort of went blank … I thought she was dead,' Juliet whispers.
Milto’s fingers feel between Juliet’s arms and Poppy's head, then he draws them out. They are smeared with red. Juliet gasps.
'That's not good, is it?'
He shrugs.
'Don't worry.' Juliet wants to reassure him. 'She stepped out in front of you. It’s not your fault.'
'I know,' Miltos replies, and for a fleeting second Juliet can imagine what it is like to be someone who is not always thinking everything is their fault and apologising for their very existence.
He stands and commands the crowd to step back. The sound of sirens can be heard in the distance, rapidly drawing closer. Juliet looks up from Poppy's face to see Miltos pulling his bike over to the side of the road, accompanied by a harsh sound of metal scraping on tarmac. At the same time, the crowd backs away, opening up as the ambulance edges in towards them.
With a sudden burst of noise and activity, the paramedics bring a stretcher; the crowd moves to surround them again and Miltos waves them back. Poppy's head is taken from Juliet by the ambulance man, who is in fact a woman, and Juliet’s arm comes away red. There is a pool of blood on the road. A torch is shined in Poppy's eyes. The other paramedics assess her leg.
'Did she lose consciousness?' the woman in the pale-green uniform asks Juliet.
'Not exactly, but her eyes went blank, like she couldn't see for a few seconds.'
'You are her daughter?'
'Friend.' Juliet surprises herself as this word slips from her tongue.
'Okay, we are going to take her to the hospital. Get in the back if you want.'
A selfish part of Juliet sees her day slipping away from her, endless hours of waiting in a hospital corridor, bad coffee – if there is any coffee at all – and all her produce wilting in the boot of her car. But Poppy has no family in the village, or anywhere as far as Juliet is aware, and just as quickly as these selfish thoughts appear they are gone and her concern takes precedence.
'We'll come.' It is Miltos who answers.
The process of strapping Poppy to the stretcher and driving to the hospital passes in a daze. Poppy seems unable to recognise anything around her, but at one point her lips move, and as the paramedics take her blood pressure Juliet leans in to hear Poppy whisper, 'Panteli,' and then 'Pan, Pan.'
'What is she saying?' Miltos asks.
'”Pantelis”, I think. I wonder who that is.' Juliet says this quietly, leaning towards him.
'Or was?' Miltos suggests.
It’s only a five-minute drive to the hospital, and when they arrive Poppy makes an attempt to sit up.
'I think I will go home now,' she says to the paramedic who is lifting the stretcher out of the vehicle.
'I think we need to look you over first,' the paramedic says gently.
'What for?' Poppy asks.
'You’ve hurt your leg.' Juliet tries to help but nurses are gathering around them now, and doctors arrive. Juliet gets the impression that it is a slow day in the hospital and that this admission is attracting everyone’s attention, not because it is particularly serious, but rather because it is something to do.
Poppy is wheeled into the building and Miltos and Juliet are told to wait.
'She'll be all right, won’t she?' Juliet looks to Miltos for a little reassurance.
'Shock has a strange nature,' Miltos replies. He sits on one of a row of stiff plastic chairs mounted on a metal frame down one side of the corridor; his fingers linked together, he leans forward, his arms resting on his legs as he studies the floor.
'Don't say that.' Juliet resents his insensitivity. She wants hope from him, not grim realities.
He shrugs, and Juliet wishes that she had stayed at home and translated the boring document, and then none of this would have happened.
Half an hour or so passes without any talking and Juliet becomes aware of how close she and Miltos are sitting and that his thigh is touching her own. It could be a hospital in England, except the lino is very worn. Juliet wonders how long they will sit here waiting. With no word of warning Miltos takes her hand, slips her fingers through his own and rests his elbows on his knees again. He doesn’t look up – he just stares at the floor, but with her hand now captive.
Chapter 6
Poppy opens her eyes and slowly brings into focus the roof beams overhead. She does not recognise the ceiling, which is wide and long. Between the roughly hewn beams are smooth wooden boards in the same natural warm honey colour. She shuffles back against the headboard to sit up, but her head is heavy and her leg aches, and there is a terrible pain in her hip.
'Owww.' The moan comes without her wishing it, and she immediately shuts her mouth. She will make no noise until she knows where she is. Slowly, piece by piece, the events of the day before return to her. The motorbike, the hospital, the diagnosis of a bruised hip and shoulder. Her right arm is bound firmly to her body.
But then, what happened between the hospital and now, because this is not a hospital bed? Ah yes, they took her in an ambulance to her house – yes, that’s right. She was strapped to a stretcher but it was too long and they could not make the turn from the back of the shop into the corridor up the stairs to her bedroom. Poppy remembers insisting that she could walk and no one listening to her. They ignored her as if she was a child and her rage boiled her blood but there was nothing she could do, strapped in like that and feeling so weak. She did not have the energy to insist. A discussion began without her, only a brief one, between Juliet and the doctors, and Miltos, or was it Petta, Marina's son? No, it was definitely the father. A fine young man, Petta. Just goes to prove that good things can come out of even the briefest of relationships. Miltos seems resolved to stay in the village, but he and Marina have little if anything in common now. It reminds Poppy of her own affair, also lost in the distant past. But why was Miltos there? Poppy remembers that Juliet nodded her head and then back they went into the ambulance.
With a groan, Poppy recalls the ambulance driving to Juliet's house, the struggle to get the stretcher into a small room, and then the doctors asking if there was a second bedroom. She can remember the shock on Juliet’s face.
So that’s where she is – in Juliet’s own bedroom. Why did Juliet allow it? This is terrible! She is not only invading the foreign woman’s space, but, worse than that, she is reliant on her for her every need. What if she needs the toilet? This is unthinkable. Something mu
st be done.
Using only one arm, it takes some considerable effort to shuffle her weight to the edge of the bed. The nightgown she is wearing is too short and barely covers her knees. One leg is bandaged at the shin, and it aches, but as she begins to lower a foot to the floor the screeching pain that jars through her hip is more than she can bear and, reluctantly, she draws it back into the bed, panting rapidly and waiting for the pain to subside. It seems clear she is stuck here for the time being.
After some time, the pain in her hip has subsided somewhat, to a bearable dull ache, and she feels able to look around her. It is an odd room. Well, no, that is not true. The room is not odd – what Juliet has done to it is odd. There are windows on three sides, with the shutters tightly closed, and a door in the fourth wall, opposite the bed. Over each window is a muslin curtain that hangs from a pole mounted high up on the ceiling – a strip of colour dropping all the way to the floor. It is very dramatic against the stark white walls. Each of the four windows has a slightly different-coloured curtain – navy-blue, pale-blue, sea-green and blue-grey. Two wooden wardrobes, painted white, stand either side of the window to her left, and between these, neatly nestled, is a small table and a chair with a rush seat. The table is piled high with papers and books and it looks like it might be where Juliet works. If that is the case, then she has taken over not only this woman’s bedroom but her work space too. She must move to her own house, today. As soon as someone comes she will make arrangements for it to happen. Even if she has to be carried up the stairs in her own house over some man’s shoulder it would be better than this. Miltos, Marina's son, and his son Petta are both big strong men. Maybe they could carry her up.
She looks around the room again. Under the window to her right is a long chest, no doubt for linen and winter blankets. With her good hand she smooths the sheet she is lying on. The cotton is soft, almost like silk, much nicer than her own linen. It reminds her of the sheets on the beds in the big house on Orino Island. This association does not help to improve her mood; it adds a sense of sadness to her frustration, and prompts a series of familiar questions: Has she played life completely wrong? Is it too late to change it?