by Leah Fleming
It was then he thought he felt someone over his shoulder and turned but no one was there. He smiled again, thinking the wine had gone to his head, but no, there was a presence, a scent of attar, of roses, his late mother’s favourite perfume. She used to love her roses and it reminded him of racing round the garden to find her on her knees, deadheading her precious blooms. His love of gardening came from her. First though, he must clear that border patch at Ariadne Villa, giving the shrubs a chance to breathe and water to refresh their roots, and later take Don Ford on a hike into the hills. He was a heart attack waiting to happen. It would make a change from unblocking sewage.
4
Sara found Ariadne Villa down a side lane. It was well furnished, clean, but had that empty feeling; someone’s home let out but not many bookings, she suspected.
There was a complimentary basket of basic groceries waiting for her: olive oil, eggs, milk, bread, feta cheese, a jar of Cretan honey, coffee and tea bags and instructions for use of the appliances. The beds were made up and stone floors mopped with a pungent cleaner. It was a simple two-bedroom house, shower upstairs with one big kitchen and living room downstairs, brightly furnished. She wondered who had once lived there.
Sara opened the shutters, delighting in a veranda draped with purple bougainvillea with a view to the bay, but surveyed the garden with dismay. The olive trees had been carefully pruned, but the oleander bushes were straying over the path and the last fruits of the sweet orange bush were in need of picking. The borders were overgrown but there was a sun-drenched stone patio that looked out over the garden on a slope facing the bay. This was paradise indeed. She unpacked her case into the spare room, decluttered the kitchen and found out how the cooker worked. After that, she felt she had earned her rest.
There was just enough time to get out the sunlounger and soak up some sun.
Lying half asleep, topless, she heard the side door open. Someone had not used the front doorbell but was slipping in; someone familiar with the layout. She quickly tied her sarong over her bare boobs and stood up to see a man standing in the shadows. Was he coming to rob the place?
‘Who are you?’ Sara’s heart was thumping; she was face to face with a tall stranger.
‘I thought this house was empty,’ he replied.
‘Did you now?’ Sara stood her ground when she saw he had implements in his hand; she was trying not to tremble, aware of being half naked. ‘If you’re after rich pickings, I’m afraid you’re in for a disappointment. There is nothing of value here.’
‘Sorry?’ He looked nonplussed. ‘You think I’m a thief?’ He laughed. ‘I’m Jolyon Grifford, here to keep Ariadne’s garden in some shape.’ He was wearing a floppy sun hat with frayed edges, khaki shorts on long tanned legs in sandals. ‘So… who are you?’ he asked, eyeing her disarray with amusement.
‘I’ve booked the villa for three weeks but I didn’t expect visitors… Sara Loveday.’ She tossed back her blonde curls, dismissing him, refusing to give him any further explanation. ‘If you don’t mind, I was reading,’ she lied. ‘And I prefer to do the garden myself, thank you. If I need any help, I’ll ask, but I like it as it is…’ she said, pointing to the gate. ‘In future, if you call, please use the front doorbell.’ He was dismissed but not before he had the last word. Turning to her seat in the sun, he paused, smiling, looking to the lounger.
‘I wouldn’t sit there too long – mosquitos like new flesh and I hope you have the coils burning in the house and outside.’
‘Thank you, I do, and cream.’
‘Better to buy local stuff here, it’s stronger. Do cover up at night or they’ll get your ankles and you don’t want to get dirty bites.’
‘Are you a doctor?’ She was curious now.
‘No, just warden of the retreat house,’ he replied in his upper crust accent.
‘Oh, that… I met someone on the ferry who teaches there. I gather it’s a place for writers and artists to come on courses or stay to develop their projects.’
‘You are well informed,’ he replied.
‘Well thank you, Mr Grifford.’
‘Everyone here calls me Griff, but I’ll leave you in peace. Pleased to meet you, sorry for the intrusion. I won’t bother you again.’ With that he made his exit leaving Sara embarrassed. What right had she to stop him working here if he was responsible for the garden? It was not her house. She was just a guest. Perhaps she ought to have offered him some tea or something but entertaining was not on her agenda. She just wanted to lie in the sun and sulk. This was an idyllic escape and she desperately wanted to make the most of it before she went back to Sheffield.
She left her sunbed to check the time. It was nearly wine o’clock and there was nothing in the house. Time to walk up to the square and the minimarket to top up her supplies. Conscious of her white legs and arms, she fished out a thin dress. It would be good to stretch her legs and find her bearings.
The minimarket was disappointing except for a box of sticky sweet baklava that took her fancy. It was still hot and she sought shade in the taverna, sinking down with relief as her new expensive sandals were chafing her heels.
‘What can I get you?’ A dark-haired woman smiled at her.
‘Something cold but not beer,’ Sara replied.
‘Would you like to try Irini’s home-made lemon cordial? It’s refreshing and very popular.’
Sara looked up in surprise. ‘You’re not Greek, are you?’
‘A Yorkshire tyke from Sheffield,’ came the reply.
‘So am I… how strange. It’s a small world.’ They both laughed.
‘Do I know you? I saw you arriving and you reminded me of someone from school.’
‘I doubt it, they say we all have a doppelganger.’ Sara felt a stab of alarm but she didn’t recall recognising this woman, even if she was about her own age.
‘Mel Duckworth, as was, Papadaki now. How is the old place? I’ve not been back for years. Once you own a place in the sun, everyone wants to come out here. This your first visit?’
‘I’ve been to Greece many times but not here. It was a last-minute booking, spur of the moment.’ That much Sara was happy to reveal but she didn’t want to be reminded of Sheffield. ‘I’m Sara… Sara Loveday.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Just down the road… Ariadne Villa.’
‘Ah, it belongs to Ariadne Blunt but she’s been in England for over a year. It makes sense to let it out, I suppose. We miss her. How do you like her garden?’
‘Funny you should say that but I had a visit from a guy I thought was a burglar. I gave him short shrift.’
‘That must be Griff. Did he explain, he does some garden work but he’s the warden at the big house up the hill.’
‘So I gather, but the garden will do for now. What’s it like living here all year?’
‘Very Greek, lots of tourists but the winter is quieter. There’s enough expats to make a community. You’ll see them around in the evenings along with the crowd from the arts courses. Come and join us on Friday. There’s an open mic and a few of us make music; you will be very welcome. But let me get your drink.’ Mel dashed off into the back.
It was a typical taverna, wooden chairs with cane seats, blue and white tablecloths, the walls festooned with sepia pictures, geraniums in terracotta pots and a bar at the end by the kitchen from where scents of spicy cooking wafted into the air. Mel came back with a jug of cordial and a plate of cinnamon biscuits.
‘You’ve got yourself a fine place here.’
‘Oh, it’s not ours, my mother-in-law Irini owns the business. She’s not been well lately. Spiro, my husband, helps where he can. We have two little lads so I am rushed off my feet at the moment.’
There was a man sitting in the corner staring at them, trying to catch their conversation, a scruffy bloke twirling his amber beads. ‘Don’t mind him, he’s part of the furniture, I’m afraid. He comes in for a coffee and would stay all day if we let him. You’d think he had better
things to do… a farmer from the tops,’ Mel whispered. ‘He gives me the creeps. He could do with a good wash. I disinfect his chair in case he leaves fleas. You get all sorts in here but it’s not my job to chuck him out. That’s right, Stavros, I’m talking about you,’ she shouted.
Sara sat ignoring the old man, savouring the biscuits and the lemon squash until her legs were sticking to the chair with the heat. ‘I’d better be off and those biscuits were delicious. Thanks.’
‘Do come on Friday, it’ll be a good night and you’ll meet the crowd. Are you sure we haven’t met before? I feel I should know you,’ Mel added.
Sara nodded and sped down the road, unnerved by Mel’s insistence that she knew her. She had come to Santaniki to be anonymous and yet the first person she met was from her home city. What a strange, unsettling coincidence.
*
In the cool of the late afternoon, he roused the tutor from his usual lie-in and insisted they went for a walk while it was still light. Don groaned, ‘Do I have to?’
Griff was in no mood after a sharp encounter with the new occupant of Ariadne Villa and did not mince his words. ‘If you’re going to be here through the summer, we need to get some of that flab off you. I don’t want any more incidents in the pool.’ Griff was already packed and ready for the off. He insisted Don wore shorts, a sun hat and decent trainers. He would not overdo the first trek as Don was so unfit but he needed to stretch him a little and the view from the plateau was worth the effort.
Don puffed and panted, wiped the sweat off his brow and demanded to sit down under a carob tree. ‘Easy does it, old chap. Give me five minutes to enjoy the view.’
‘It’ll be better when we get to the top, I promise. It’s not far and then we can have a drink.’
Don was having none of it, getting out his cigarettes. ‘Here I stay, enough for one session.’ He lay back with his hat over his face.
‘Watch out… there may be snakes or scorpions waiting to pounce on you,’ Griff laughed and Don shot up.
‘I’m not going any further. You go on, you slave driver.’ It was then they heard a strange sound, a mewing. ‘What’s that?’
Griff looked round but found nothing. There was a louder whimper. ‘It’s a sheep or lamb somewhere, I expect. I’ll take a look.’
‘I’m coming with you. It may need help.’ Don rose slowly as Griff climbed ahead.
‘Over here!’ Griff shouted by the rock. Don puffed his way to join him. ‘Look at that!’ Griff pointed to a little creature huddled under the shade of the rock, a matted, unrecognisable animal like a tiny lamb, but it was not a lamb but a dog, mangey, hairless, bone-thin, that gazed up at them. It looked close to death. ‘My God, the poor thing.’ Griff could hardly speak. ‘It’s trying to wag its tail. Fetch the water. There’s a towel in the bottom of the bag.’
Don watched as Griff dribbled water onto its lips and it drank. ‘We must wrap it in the towel and lift it. It may be too late but I’ll not have it die alone in this state.’ The dog offered no resistance and looked up at them in gratitude through crusted eyes.
They carried it in turn close to their chests, wondering if it would survive the journey. ‘How on earth did it land up here? Was it dumped?’ Griff said.
‘No idea. What can you do?’ Don replied. ‘Is there a vet on the island?’
‘Not that I know of. I’ll take him to Dr Makaris. If it’s too late he will know what to do. This animal has suffered enough. If it survives the night, I’ll take him over to the mainland for treatment. Just look at the state of him.’
‘It was a good job I sat down for a breather, otherwise…’ Don shook his head.
Griff turned to him and smiled. ‘If there’s a spark of life left in it, don’t worry, you will take the credit, but I wouldn’t hold your breath.’ They walked down the path in silence while Griff prayed the warmth of his body would keep the little creature alive.
*
Mel was late as usual for the book club meeting in Dorrie Thorner’s house. Membership was thin at the moment as many residents were away. Dorrie would take it as a personal insult if there were only a few in attendance. Mel had not done her homework either and that would be noted and held against her. It wasn’t her fault. Irini needed more help, Markos was playing up, Spiro was late and she’d given him an earful. ‘I don’t often get a night off, even if it is only to listen to Dorrie Thorner waxing lyrical about her latest literary sensation, but I do like meeting up and chatting in English all night.’
She stomped off in a bad mood and almost turned back. Meetings weren’t the same without their founder member, Ariadne Blunt. She arrived in time to hear the latest gossip about the new arrival in St Nick’s.
‘Who’s the poor victim this time?’ she joked.
‘The woman in Ariadne’s villa. Have you met her? Is she staying long?’
‘Only briefly,’ Mel replied. ‘And she’s from Yorkshire so you can’t get better than that.’
‘She’s on her own then?’ Dorrie was prying as usual. ‘I was told she arrived on that Don Ford’s arm. Perhaps he’s brought some company with him to keep him in check.’
‘We don’t know that,’ said Chloë Bartlett who was trying not to look interested.
‘Give the poor girl a chance, ladies. I’ve not seen her with the writing group or Don Ford in the taverna yet. I think it’s only a short holiday let.’
‘Do you think she would be good book club material? We could do with more temporary guests in the season. They have lots of paperbacks to share.’ Trust Dorrie to see a chance.
‘Most don’t have the sort of books you read, surely.’ Mel couldn’t help herself. Just because someone was single, there was no need to make assumptions, but she bit her tongue. ‘Hadn’t we better start?’
‘We were waiting for you.’ Dorrie looked at the wall clock. ‘I hope you’ve all read my choice.’ She was looking in Mel’s direction.
‘Sorry, I meant to, but every time I picked it up in bed, I fell asleep.’
‘You’re not the only one,’ Chloë added. ‘I’m afraid the subject matter didn’t hold my interest. You know I only give a book seventy pages but after that… sorry.’
Dorrie shook her lacquered bob with a sigh. ‘I see… Am I the only one to have read it then?’
No one spoke. ‘Then it’s a good job I made some notes.’
Mel sat back in the cane chair resigned to at least a twenty-minute lecture, her eyes drooping in the heat. It had been a long, tiring day and she hoped to be rewarded with some decent wine and a slice of Victoria sponge but, knowing Dorrie, it would be something undrinkable and sensible Cretan biscuits.
5
Spiro Papadakis, Mel’s husband, stood watching the ferry boat chugging into the harbour. His pickup truck was waiting for the catering supplies and boxes of provisions for the coming wedding celebrations on Saturday. He took his cigarettes from the glove pocket for a sneaky fag out of Mel’s range. She was busy in the kitchen cooking ahead for the wedding feast. His mama was doing her best but struggling, bad tempered, snapping at his little boys, criticising poor Mel and demanding everything was done to family tradition.
Dr Makaris’s son, Ari, was marrying Father Mikhalis’s daughter, Elefteria, and the whole town was invited to the feast. The town didn’t have a wedding centre where hundreds of guests could be seated, but the community hall and its car park turned into overspill with tables and chairs sitting out in the open air and the music and dancing taking place on the square itself. Spiro had a rehearsal tonight to sharpen up the dances that his group would be performing. His white boots needed cleaning and his traditional costume airing. The young couple wanted as many guests to wear traditional outfits but the custom was dying out. The ladies would be adorned in glittery dresses and, when she had time, Mel was busy adding sequins to her long party dress.
Mel had introduced him to a girl renting Ariadne Villa who came from her home town. She had striking green eyes, a freckled nose and a mane of blonde h
air with a smattering of tourist Greek but was not his type. He liked women to be full-bodied, like Grecian vases, not tall and skinny. Old man Stavros Metrakis was eyeing her with interest in her khaki shorts and top. He liked to ogle all the foreign girls and some were a sight for sore eyes. Some waddled round the shops as if they were still on the beach. In the old days such brazen outfits caused outrage, but now no one bothered.
Other restaurateurs were gathering by the ferry as the catering was being shared out so as not to cause offence; some would bake bread and rusks filled with tomatoes and cheese, others would make great vats of boureki, pastistio, lasagne, souvlaki, chicken, pilafi rice and chips. Everyone had their list of ingredients and the minimarket ordered from the cash-and-carry in Chania. Now it was all coming over on the ferry. He caught sight of young Ari Makaris striding off the boat. They hugged a greeting. ‘Well, young man… Ti kaneis?’ How are you?
Ari was a medical student in Heraklion, almost qualified. Ari and Ellie had been sweethearts for years and the wedding would be such a celebration here. Everyone wished them well. Tomorrow the women would go to the priest’s house to view all their wedding gifts and he was sure Irini would be first in the queue.
No time to be sentimental when there were boxes and crates to be loaded into the truck. It was thirsty work so Spiro fuelled himself with coffee, resisting the cake on view in the kafenion. He needed to fit into his dancing trousers which were still a little tight. His mother indulged him like a baby but it was Mel who ruled over his diet while his mother sniffed.
‘English eat like sparrows. A man needs a bellyful of good Greek food. It shows he has money in his purse. Have another slice,’ she would say.
He saw the tall, blond figure of Griff, the warden loading his boxes onto a trailer attached to his bike. No self-respecting Cretan would waste time pedalling uphill in this heat but Griff was an odd fellow; friendly, though he kept himself to himself, spoke decent Greek and was a regular customer at their taverna, encouraging his guests to dine with them and sometimes playing for Mel and her group on open mic nights in the season.