by Sara Alexi
She continued to watch in horror as the donkeys deposited him on the road just below the house, and he was obliged to climb the final few steps with one hand on the wall and his other pushing against his knee. He seemed very unfit for someone so young, and Poppy wondered why she had not been informed, as she always was, that someone was coming to stay at the house. Perhaps he had come to the wrong house? Poppy braced herself for the knock on the door and the need for awkward explanations, hoping that he would instead realise his mistake and retreat down the steps to wherever it was he should be going.
But instead of a knock came the sound of a key in the lock, and he walked straight into the courtyard at the far side of the house! Poppy stood and stared, wide-eyed. A stranger with a key!
'Ah, good,' he said when he saw her. 'There is a bag at the bottom of the steps – can you get someone to bring it up?' And with that, he marched straight into the sitting room and stretched himself out on the sofa. Poppy, at a loss for an explanation, continued to stare, as the man got out his handkerchief again and mopped at his brow and his neck. After a minute or two, he became aware of her staring and snapped at her, ‘My bag?’
Startled, Poppy shook off her daze and went down for the bag. The donkey man carried it up for her, pointing with his chin in the direction of the stranger, and shrugging his shoulders. She shrugged hers in return.
The stranger was sitting up now, and as Poppy entered the room again he looked her up and down in a way that made her feel rather uncomfortable.
’I don’t suppose there’s any whisky?’ he barked, after a while, which made Poppy jump. ‘And who are you, anyway?’ he added.
Chapter 12
Still at a loss, Poppy let go of the handle of the man’s bag, and it fell with a thump.
'Careful!' he snapped.
In the three years or so that she had worked for Mr Kalopoulos, there had been various visitors to the house, but always, without fail, she had been informed first, usually by letter. And in all the time she had worked there, no one apart from Mr Kalopoulos had arrived with a key!
Should she, as the housekeeper, demand that he identify himself and explain what he was doing there? But something about his manner stopped her from questioning him, and instead she stood there mutely, staring at his neatly trimmed hair and scrubbed hands that were clearly not acquainted with any kind of manual labour. Should she go down to the town, find some strong man who could help her eject him? But that would mean leaving him alone in the house. The donkey man who had brought him up was now gone, and Poppy cursed herself for not asking him to stay to assist her.
Finally he broke the silence.
'So you are …?' He repeated himself, kicking his shoes off and putting his feet up on the arm of the sofa. She stepped forward to object to this behaviour but then stopped.
'With all due respect,’ she began nervously, ‘I think, under the circumstances, with you walking into this house that is under my care, unannounced, it is you who should be telling me who you are.' Poppy could feel herself shaking, speaking to him like that.
'Ah, so you must be the housekeeper! Poppy, isn’t it?' he said, not in the least taken aback by the way she had spoken to him. ‘For some reason I presumed you would be an old woman, dressed in black. Well, there we are then.'
His Greek was good, with the same American twang as Mr and Mrs Kalopolous. Spotting the decanter on the chest of drawers he stood and poured himself a generous measure before sitting again.
'Where are we?’ Poppy demanded, somewhat annoyed now. ‘Are you a friend of Mr and Mrs Kalopolous?'
'No, not exactly.' And his face changed as if she had touched on a sad subject, but Poppy continued regardless.
'Do they know you are here?' she asked, and her heart began to pound in her chest.
'No, they don't.' He answered as if he was far away but Poppy's fear turned into rage.
'I suggest you explain yourself before–' Her voice came out more strongly than she intended, and she had no idea what threat she could add to the end of the sentence, but he spoke over her, making its conclusion unnecessary.
'I am their son.'
A silence followed in which he stared at his drink and swirled the liquid round, and Poppy stared at him wide-eyed, trying to find the resemblance in his features to those of Mrs or Mr Kalopolous.
Then he sprang out of his stare and told her, without a hint of emotion, or so it seemed, of his father's death and his mother’s subsequent stroke, and of the two months she had spent in a care home before she died, with nurses giving round-the-clock care. It was all very recent, she gathered – within the last couple of months. He then fell back into a stare, swirling his drink again.
It had only been a year since Poppy had lost her own mama. Quite out of the blue, she died in her sleep, back in Saros. Of course, as soon as she heard the news, Poppy hurried back across to the mainland, all energy and raw grief. But the funeral had already been arranged, by the headmaster of the school where her mama cleaned. So when the bus dropped her and she ran home, there was no one there and nothing for her to do but weep and moan and try to come to terms with the suddenness of it all.
The house where she had grown up seemed empty and alien, and it was quickly made clear by the owner that he needed it now for his own daughter, who was soon to marry. It seemed they were going to give Poppy's mama notice because of this anyway. At the time, she wondered if her mama’s death made it simpler for them to do something they were planning all along, or if they had grabbed the opportunity because it arose. Either way, it seemed callous, and so with stiff limbs Poppy had started packing the few things that were actually hers and her mama's.
The few items she had kept – reminders of her childhood and of her mama – were displayed in her room in the house on Orino Island, which seemed even more important once they were there; it was suddenly the only place where she felt she belonged, and she doubled her efforts to care for it.
And now, here was a man telling her that all this was in doubt – that she might no longer be able to look after this place that was her home, her everything. This man, who could not even walk up from the port on his own two legs, was the new owner … In that moment, she gasped out loud as she realised that her home and her work, her whole life, in fact, was suddenly in his hands.
Poppy blinks away a tear and refocuses her eyes.
'Yes, he was older and wiser and had all the power, and I needed the house, my home, and the job.' She looks at Juliet.
'That is a bad combination,' Juliet says. 'Did he take advantage?'
'No … yes.' It feels difficult to explain.
'That sounds like life’s usually lack of clarity,' Juliet says, and Poppy feels that her instinct to seek Juliet out in the first place had been right. Juliet will understand, she decides, and maybe, just maybe, she can help. Poppy smooths the letter once again.
'Initially he said nothing about whether I was to stay on, and as the days passed I did my best to avoid him. I still cooked his breakfast, just like I had for his parents, and I washed the pots and made his bed when he was out, and after he had gone to bed I picked up the clothes that he left strewn across the sitting room floor all the way to his bedroom. I began to think that I would keep my job, but I was scared to ask directly. What if he said no? As long as I didn’t ask there was a chance I could stay on. But when I went to the bank to see Kyrios Kraton the next month, everything had changed.'
'How do you mean?' Juliet asks.
'Well, the old couple had money in the bank there and they arranged for the manager, Kyrios Kraton, to pay a certain amount to me each month, in cash, in my hand. But he said the account had been closed and there was nothing for me, and so I had to face Pantelis and ask him directly.'
'Och, how awkward.' Juliet squirms in her seat.
He was in the garden, lying on a sunbed, his dark glasses on, reading a magazine. The two weeks had become three and there was no sign of him leaving. Poppy took him a sweet frappe, to soften what
needed to be said.
'I’m glad you are not as old as my ma and pa made you sound,' he said, peering at her over his dark glasses as she stepped out of the house, and she got the feeling that he had been waiting for her to come out.
'Is that for me?’ He pointed at the glass in her hand. ‘It’s nice to have such a lovely-looking girl bring me a drink to cool me in this heat.'
Poppy swallowed hard, but there was no avoiding it. 'Actually I wanted to talk to you about that,' she said.
'About bringing me drinks?’ He laughed. ‘You can do that any time you like! In fact, pull up that chair there and give me a little company' – and he sat up and took off his glasses.
'No, not about bringing you drinks, although, in a way, yes, about bringing you drinks,' Poppy stammered, remaining standing.
'Well, is it or isn't it?' He laughed again, seeming to enjoy her discomfort, but he stood up and brought a chair over for her and motioned for her to sit down.
'Sit!' he demanded when she continued to stand, and so she did. Pantelis sighed and shrugged his shoulders.
‘So what is it you wanted to say to me? I presume it must be important, since you made me this coffee without my asking.’
Poppy could feel the colour rising in her cheeks.
‘Come on, I won’t bite! Give me a chance and we might even become friends.’ Their eyes met, and there was something there that told Poppy that he liked what he saw, and despite herself she felt flattered and just a little excited.
'The bank account is closed,’ Poppy said quietly, looking down at her hands. ‘Mr and Mrs Kalopolous’s bank account, where the bank manager used to draw my wages. He says there is no money. And I wanted to ask you if I still have a job?'
She didn’t intend to be that direct; in the speech she had rehearsed in her mind, she had put the question in such a way that it would be very difficult for him to say no, but now she felt she had left herself wide open. He could say no, that she did not have a job, and then where would she be?
'Ah, so that’s how they did it. I did wonder. So what are you saying, that I must open an account for you?' Poppy glanced up and could see a look of genuine concern on his face. Did it mean she still had a job, that he wanted her to stay on? Why else would he talk about opening bank accounts? But his gaze was intense and unsettling, and she looked away again.
'Oh, no. I don't need an account. Kyrios Kraton will give me it in cash from your account, if you tell him.' The idea of her needing a bank account back then seemed beyond ridiculous, for the few drachmas she was paid!
'Oh, so I am the one who needs an account,’ he exclaimed. ‘Well, yes, that makes sense, I suppose. Okay, let us not waste time then.' And he stood, marching inside, kicked off his sandals and put on his shoes.
'Let us go and see this Kyrios Kraton this very instant, or immediately, whichever is sooner.' He smiled broadly at this, and he opened the front door and stepped to one side, waving her through with a gracious gesture.
'He held the door open for you?' Juliet says.
'Yes,' Poppy replies. 'And that was just the start of the little things that he did for me. I think it was because I brought him the frappe. Imagine, as simple as that! And the days passed and he showed no signs of leaving, and I became used to flowers on the kitchen table, or pastries and other treats from the bakery in the port. He even helped me fold the laundry – can you imagine! After a while it was as if we were living together like man and wife in all but one aspect.'
Chapter 13
How wonderful those days were! Spring grew warmer until there was no mistaking that it was summer. She kept house and he made of his days whatever he desired. Sometimes he would sunbathe on the terrace; other days he would take a towel and go down to the sea for a swim; or he might put on his father’s panama hat and his stout shoes and head up into the hills with a packed lunch. He lost a little weight, and his skin turned first red and then an even brown, and he didn’t puff and pant up the steps any more. Every other evening or so he would invite her to sit and eat with him whatever it was that she had prepared. It was true he did not include her in everything he did, but then why should he? She was the housekeeper, after all, and he her employer, but it did seem that they were also becoming friends. He spent time teaching her to speak English, and by the end of the summer she could ask his name, or the price of a kilo of apples, or what he would like for his dinner, and mostly she would understand his answers. By the time autumn came they spoke a mixture of Greek and English, and she felt that they had a secret language that the neighbours could not understand.
One day when he had gone down for a newspaper Poppy found herself out on the terrace, with little that needed doing around the house. Having noted that the quinces were nicely ripe, and as the day was still new, she set about making quince jam.
She left the door open to allow the breeze to take the heat out of the kitchen, and when she heard a voice outside it took her a moment to realise who was speaking. She had not given a thought to her friend in the olive grove recently. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and his hair dishevelled, and earth was caked on his hands.
'That smells good,' he said.
'Quince jam,' she informed him, as if he didn't know, and his nose sniffed the air appreciatively.
'So how’s life with the new owner?' He leaned on the wall that separated the olive grove from the house.
'He is very kind and does not require so much.'
'That’s good. So he is keeping you on, then?'
'Yes, of course,' Poppy replied, as if it would be unthinkable for it to be otherwise, and in that moment, in a way, she felt so much more than just the housekeeper, and certainly no longer the equal of a mere farm worker. The thought was an uncomfortable one, and she could not meet the boy’s eye.
‘He’s teaching me English.’
'He sounds almost too good.'
This made her angry. 'And what is that meant to mean?'
'He's not from here, is he? This is his holiday, and everything is good and fun when you are on holiday. The things you do, the relationships you make. It is all designed to keep a person happy in the few weeks they are away from their normal lives.'
Even though the words sounded considered, they were spoken lightly, a passing comment, maybe, and his eyes flicked past her and around the kitchen, perhaps looking for the jam.
'But why do you see this as not being part of his life? When you come here from Saros, you consider this to be part of your life, don't you?’ She left no gap in which he could answer. ‘This is not a holiday for him, and he doesn’t seem to have a set date to return, anyway, so what are you saying, exactly?' Poppy could hear the defensiveness in her tone.
‘Sure, yes, what do I know?’ He gave a little nervous laugh. ‘Perhaps you are right. Anyway, I don't suppose you would be easily flattered by his attentions.' And he looked down at his dirt-streaked hands.
She was not sure what to say immediately, and as she watched him clean the dirt out from under one nail with another, his lack of gentility appalled her and brought to mind Pantelis’s beautifully manicured hands, with his white half-moons and smooth palms. She noted the youth’s torn and patched shirt, and his hair that needed a cut.
'Ha!' she began. 'I was right to name you Kithoni, as I believe you are just worried that he will eat all the quince jam and that there will be none left for you!’ And she put her hands on her hips and turned to go back inside.
'Something like that,' he called after her, and when she turned to look at him she saw a sadness in his face that scared her. She shut the door so she could no longer see him and busied herself until Pantelis came home, then she prepared a salad to accompany the pastichio that she had baked for his lunch.
'Sit with me to eat. Are you hungry?' Pantelis said. 'Yes, you must sit with me as I have something to tell you.'
She felt the smallest flicker of excitement at this, somewhere beneath her breastplate. Perhaps it was just a reaction to Kithoni and his warnings about
the American. Surely the boy was wrong; surely she did have a real friendship with Pantelis and wasn’t just flattering herself over his attention.
'I will get another plate,' she said, and hurried to the kitchen.
'Well, this looks good,' he said, helping himself to a big portion of the pastichio. He piled on the salad too.
'So,' he began again, 'in town there is all sorts being said.'
Poppy’s throat closed in a second at this, and her fork froze by her mouth. Was the talk in town about her? Had news spread about her friendship with the American?
'Apparently there are some men – two, maybe.' Pantelis sipped his wine.
Poppy’s throat relaxed, and she delivered the food to her mouth. The talk in the town was not about her.
'Maybe four men or more, no one seems to know. Anyway, however many there are, it seems they have been going from village to village and staying for a while at each place, establishing themselves in the community and learning all there is to know about the people who live there.'
'Oh,' said Poppy, trying to gather where this tale was leading.
'Yes, it sounds normal enough, but these men are tricksters. Their game is to get to know who is rich and who is not, who keeps money or jewels in the house and who has nothing, and then when they have found everything out they make a raid on all the houses, clean the whole town out in one night and they are gone, just like that.' Pantelis put his fork down so he could click his fingers for emphasis.
'That is awful!' Poppy exclaimed. 'It is one thing to rob a stranger, but to take from the people you know, the people who have come to care for you, that is despicable.'
'Yes, indeed,' Pantelis replied, and shovelled pastichio into his mouth with gusto.
'But I don’t understand why you are telling me about these men. Were they in the paper? Have they been caught?' Poppy poured more wine into his glass.
'No! That is why there is so much talk! There is a rumour that they are here, that these men have already integrated themselves into the community, but of course no one knows who they are, so everyone who was not born and bred on the island is under suspicion! Could you pass the salad, please.'