by Leah Fleming
What if… But it was fanciful, silly, a wine-induced idea scuttling across her mind. All morning she kept seeing that image. It was just a holiday fancy, like most tourists who dream of buying a villa in the sun, and all those TV programmes fuelling it. Escape to Santaniki, living like a Greek god on your own special island. Sara laughed. Don’t be so silly. Sadly, she thought, it would never work, and yet she could not shake the idea out of her head.
8
After the monthly committee meeting of the trustees of the Elodie Durrante Arts Foundation, Griff made coffee as the committee sat on the veranda. Everything was looking good financially. Norris Thorner, the treasurer, was pleased that the courses were fully booked for September and October, and local resident Simon Bartlett, an ex-editor, suggested they print more copies of the famous novelist’s journal and memoir that their founder member, Ariadne Blunt, discovered a few years back. ‘I’ve even managed to get it into the bookshops on the mainland,’ he announced. ‘It should bring across tourists to visit our little museum of her life.’
When the rest of the committee drifted away Simon stayed put. ‘Sorry Chloë couldn’t attend but she is in London with our Alexa and little Olympia…’ He paused. ‘Griff, can I ask you something? It’s about your friend, Felix MacLeod, Alexa’s new guy. How well do you know him?’
‘We were at Harrow together. He’s a good chap.’
‘That’s what I wanted to know… Alexa had a tough time with her first husband. I guess Felix told you the score. He left her for another man when she was pregnant.’
Griff could feel Simon’s hesitation and sensed what might be coming next.
‘I wouldn’t want Alexa to be let down again. Is he serious?’
Griff smiled. ‘I saw them briefly in London and they looked happy and well suited and he’s good with the little girl. He’s had his own troubles too – his wife was ill and she had to be sectioned.’
‘So, he’s still married then?’ Simon looked worried.
‘No, she died on a railway track…’
Simon bowed his head. ‘How sad. It’s just that I gather they’re thinking about moving in together. We both liked him but we are anxious as Alexa is our only child, Chloë’s daughter from her first marriage, and I know what it’s like to bring up someone else’s kid. You read such awful things in the newspapers.’
To stop this train of thought, Griff held his hand up. ‘Felix was my best mate at school and he was a rock when things went pear-shaped for my business. He’ll make a good father. He’s great with my brother’s brood.’
‘Chloë thinks he’s going to propose to her and she is already planning her wedding outfit, I fear.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Griff replied. Since his move to Santaniki they were not in regular contact but FaceTimed occasionally. This was news to him. ‘She could do far worse than Felix,’ he added.
‘You can understand me being protective?’ Simon said.
‘Of course.’ Griff couldn’t comment on what he didn’t know. ‘I think moving in together is a good test of a relationship.’
‘You were married then?’ Simon was probing.
‘Engaged briefly but both of us were a bit too young and ambitious. We parted amicably enough.’ Griff lied but he didn’t want to reveal how Felix’s cousin, Flissa, had fought over every stick of furniture in the flat when he had to sell up. He didn’t want to return to that nightmare.
‘Thanks for putting my mind at rest.’ Simon stood to leave. ‘I’d better get on a flight and see their new abode. Since our grandchild arrived, we seem to spend more and more time in London but they’re coming out for a holiday soon. Sorry to bother you.’
‘Not at all, I hope I put your mind at rest. Incidentally, when will Ariadne Blunt return? I gather there’s a squatter in residence,’ he laughed.
‘Sara… I met her in the taverna. Dear Ariadne is sorely missed; such a generous soul and it’s good her house is aired and lived in. I saw Sara at the wedding helping out backstage.’
‘Yes,’ Griff replied. He was impressed how she chipped in on her holiday. ‘What does she do for a living?’
‘Not sure, Mel was so busy last week. I gather they are both from the same place. Chloë is the one who finds out everything. I think she returns home soon. It’s only a holiday let.’ Simon rose and made for the kitchen with a tray of cups. Griff followed behind.
‘I forgot to thank you for getting us Don Ford. Him being in residence has boosted our writing courses no end but he’s drinking me dry… no spirits left in the bar,’ Griff said.
‘I could find someone else, I’ve still got contacts in the publishing world.’
‘No, we’re fine, Don is a great tutor and good with the new writers but I wish he wouldn’t swim with a skinful of village wine. I’ve fished him out twice and the guest suite smells like a brewery. I am trying to get him fit without much luck so far; he thinks a hike is twice round our gardens. But, he was the one who found little Sparky.’
Simon laughed. ‘You know, you’re fitting in well here and it’s good to see you on the keyboard joining in with the taverna musicians. They’re a nice bunch. Now Chloë is away, I dine most nights with Mel and Spiro. Not much good with the pots and pans so come and join me before I dash off to London. They are delighted with the trade you’re bringing in.’
‘Thanks,’ Griff said, knowing the next contingent of ten guests was not due in until the weekend and he wanted to plan a hike up behind Agios Nikolaos chapel to the caves and the hills beyond. He wanted to test all the tracks to check any loose rocks and to find a good hide for birdwatchers. He would join Simon at the taverna later, owing him big time for giving him this post at the retreat. It was good to be his own boss again and this time no shyster would ruin the success of this venture.
Spartacus was waiting on the veranda in his basket. He was improving day by day and his coat was starting to grow, as suspected, into a smoky grey fluff. Griff always got a wagging tail welcome from the little dog but it was still too risky to walk him in the hills. Just in case he got lost again.
*
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ Sara said, seeing Mel lying under the straw sunshade as the sun went down. Her two boys were splashing in the water.
‘Sit down on the lounger.’ Mel beckoned. ‘Thanks again for helping us out last week.’
This is the life! Sara smiled, watching a sailing boat bobbing in the waves. It was picture perfect; eyes half closed, the scene changed into the jetty with the rose arch and the couple holding hands.
‘I had a funny dream last night,’ she said, turning to Mel who put her book down to listen. ‘About a wedding, a couple on a jetty over there under an arch full of roses.’
‘No wonder you were dreaming, we were half cut last night. Don was dishing out raki as if there was no tomorrow but it was fun,’ Mel said, staring out to the water’s edge. ‘I can’t see any jetty,’ she said.
‘It’s just I can’t get it out of my mind. I could see wooden decking surrounded by white-covered chairs, a platform strewn with rose petals, a flower girl with a basket, in a white dress with a big pink satin sash. It was so real… the sun, the sea, the bride and groom, except he wore linen shorts.’
‘Like Griff, you mean. Good husband material there, I reckon…’ Mel said. ‘But no one, no one, should wed in the full heat of the sun. They’d roast.’
‘No, don’t be daft, not him… but strangers who come to the island to tie the knot. It got me thinking there’s a market for such a venture here.’ Sara tried to explain the strange ideas forming as she fell asleep on her sofa.
‘You mean bring a wedding planner across here to organise weddings and everything?’ Mel was curious.
‘Exactly. She links up with local providers, beauticians, hairdressers, caterers – that you must recommend, of course… If you helped create such a huge event as Ari and Ellie’s do, why not do it for yourself, feed guests?’
‘Hang on,’ said Mel. ‘Stop right ther
e. I’ve enough to do as it is. Where would we find a wedding planner on this tiny island?’
‘Who says they have to live here? There’s texts, online contacts, websites and FaceTime. It could all be arranged in the UK.’ Sara was buzzing with ideas.
‘It’s you we’re talking about, isn’t it?’ Mel turned on her. ‘You can’t be serious?’
‘It’s an idea worth chewing over. It’s not as if I don’t know how to organise events and a wedding is no different.’ Sara stopped at that thought. She knew more about wedding planning than she was prepared to share.
‘Let’s get this straight: if you’re going to take this idea seriously, you’d have to be on tap here and do it yourself, not in Sheffield. Who has time here to go around getting forms, visas, finding items, decorating rose arches… dream on.’ Mel sat up, her dark eyes flashing in Sara’s direction. ‘It’s a great idea, could be a goer, but you would have to do it yourself. What about your business back home? You can’t up sticks and come to live here. That’s holiday madness. I’ve seen it before, so many Brits come and go, full of dreams, but the reality of winter out of season, it can drive some potty.’
‘I could return to the UK in winter to attend wedding fairs and do Christmas parties and all the usual stuff.’ Mel was talking sense but she was not ready to hear it out loud.
‘Surely I don’t need to tell you that you need a sound business plan, costings for accommodation for bride and groom, not in some tin shack on the beach, a set-up fund for advertising. Then there’s all the bureaucracy here, the red tape, insurance and contingency plans. It’s not like in the UK, things go slowly here, frustratingly slow at times. And you need time to set up your suppliers. I’m always happy to cater for small events but that’s all… Think bridal cake, menus with English or Greek flavours, table decorations, favours. You can’t just rush into a crazy idea and you’d better learn decent Greek, not just tourist Greek. Not everyone has English here.’
‘But it has legs, this idea?’ Sara asked. Mel was bursting her inflated balloon.
‘It does but siga, siga, slowly does it. I think an idea like yours is a bit like baking bread. It has to rise. If you rush, it won’t work. Ideas like this take time to rise and rest slowly before you make it happen. Go home and think it over. If it’s what you want, go for it. It won’t be easy but don’t count me in, I’ve enough on my plate.’ Mel added, ‘Anything worth doing is never easy.’
‘Give me credit for knowing that,’ Sara retorted. This Yorkshire woman said it how it was but she liked her honesty. ‘I’ll see how others do it back home but if I return, I could rent somewhere like Ariadne Villa, if it is still free for a longer let, get a feel for how best to design a package. I see there’s even a little English church here so I could ask the vicar, find suitable photographers and locations. I might need you to guide me to the best businesses though.’
‘Make a list. Sara, don’t go blundering into this,’ Mel cautioned. ‘It won’t be all confetti and cakes but I like the idea.’ She stood up and shook off the sand, calling in her boys. ‘Now, before you go home, you must see one of our famous rituals when it’s dark. It’s Midsummer Eve and the feast of John the Baptist, the one who lost his head when Salome did the dance of the seven veils… I think. You’ve only got a few days left to enjoy yourself. So, up you get and put something decent on. I’ll meet you in an hour on the beach. I must make tracks because it will be busy tonight.’ Mel threw on a cotton kaftan over her head. ‘No rest for the wicked.’
‘I’ll stay a little longer if you don’t mind. My mind is buzzing with ideas.’ Sara sat in silence, lost in her thoughts. She could see it all unfolding: the taverna tables with white cloths and candles, chairs covered in linen, bridal colours in the flowers, sparkly champagne flutes, fairy lights strung around and flowers everywhere.
Am I off my head? How can I make that dream a reality? Mel was right: it wasn’t the time to make rash decisions. She’d made enough already in fleeing here. Time to return home to test the reality of such a crazy scheme. Celebrations always had balloons and cake and party clothes, speeches and dancing, and she was no novice at organising events. Perhaps she could make someone’s dream come true and give them a wedding day to remember for the rest of their lives? Perhaps then she would feel she had done something worthwhile with her life.
*
Sara followed the crowds making for the beach – families, old and young – in the direction of the smoky tinge of olive wood and pine. The bonfire was well alight, flames leaping into the darkening sky as people stood around. She found Mel and her boys and joined them as Mel threw a dried wreath of flowers onto the flames. It seemed as if the whole of St Nick’s town was gathering, watching, and to her horror, she saw boys were leaping into the fire, not into the middle but among the smouldering cinders.
‘Why the hell are they doing that?’ she whispered.
‘It’s an age-old ritual, all very pagan, I suspect. A rite of passage for good fortune and fertility and to rid the island of bad spirits.’
‘Just imagine health and safety allowing this in Britain! What’s with the wreaths?’
‘Out with the old and in with the new; these flowers have done their duty protecting the house. I think that’s why we do it. You have wreaths on the door at Christmas, I suspect for the same reason.’
‘It’s weird,’ Sara said. ‘I guess superstition is universal. My mum won’t have lilac in the house or new shoes on the table.’
‘No one wants bad luck,’ Mel added.
Perhaps I should have had a wreath on my door but my bad luck was inside the door not outside it. I don’t want to go back, Sara thought but said nothing. ‘I’d like to stay on longer.’
‘But what about your business?’
‘Karen can cover for me… at least for a while.’ Sara’s head was spinning with ideas, smoke stung her eyes, blinding her. There was lyra music coming from a bar on the beach, everyone laughing and chattering, enjoying the spectacle. How could she leave all this? How could she leave Santaniki for damp old Sheffield, much as she loved her home city? That dream vision had lingered at the back of her mind all day and now this.
‘It wouldn’t work.’ She was unaware of speaking out loud.
‘What wouldn’t work?’ Mel shoved a drink in her hand.
‘Nothing, just mulling over that idea.’
‘Spit it out then…’
‘Not yet. You’re right, I have to think everything through before I take a leap in the dark.’
‘Don’t go leaping into the dark here, you’ll end up in the fire and that won’t solve anything.’ Mel took her arm. ‘I think you’ve had enough dreaming for one day.’
Sara knew her new-found friend was right.
July
9
In the villa set high on a rock overlooking the bay, Jack Bailey and Sandra Taylor took their G and Ts to the infinity pool. Renting this huge house was an extravagance but the young couple who owned it, lottery winners, she was told, had returned to London to await the birth of their first baby, but there were complications so they insisted on being close to their London family and they weren’t planning to return for a while.
‘Isn’t this perfect, love? Just right. Are you okay?’ Jack brought the drinks down to where Sandra was sitting in the shade with a magazine.
‘Just tired as usual, the pills knock me out, that’s all. I’m fine,’ she replied, knowing Jack could be very protective and not wanting to worry him. They had been partners for over ten years now, meeting on a singles walking holiday on the big island, exploring deep gorges and river beds and white sand beaches on the south coast of Crete.
Now this lengthy holiday was to help her recuperate after her operation. The diagnosis wasn’t brilliant but there was life in the old girl yet. Jack was so kind and understanding and everybody agreed that a six-month break would build Sandra up before another round of chemo might knock her back.
This was a dream rental, a family house full of h
uge cool rooms, a film screening room and airy kitchen with all the mod cons, quiet, away from the bustle of Santaniki town where hordes of summer tourists spilled out of the ferry boats on day trips.
Sandra didn’t want to be standoffish but too much canned music coming from harbour cafés made her head ache. Swimming in their pool was so relaxing, she could pretend she was in the turquoise sea down below. It really did feel like living with the gods. Yesterday they had made one trip up to Agios Nikolaos chapel but the steep climb caught Sandra’s breath and she had to take a rest before reaching the ancient chapel, set almost into the rock. Outside there were benches to share their picnic of spinach pies, apples and a bowl of cherries with a flask of iced mountain water. In the chapel were golden frescoes so beautiful they seemed to merge into the walls, and silvery tamata – plaques donated to the saints as offerings for healing.
Sandra felt tears rising looking at the pleas; legs, heads, hearts. How many had been successful? she wondered. It was cool and musty so she sat drinking in the scene. I wish I were more religious, she sighed, but she felt the peace in this sacred place. She lit a candle and watched the flame flickering, a candle of hope for herself and others.
She sensed there were her own affairs to set in order, just in case… but one day at a time. Enjoy the moment, she prayed.
Jack brought his binoculars to scour the rocks in search of local birdlife. They had returned many times to Crete and now to Santaniki. It was their paradise island but this year it was special. Both of them had been married before. They had five grandchildren between them but although Jack’s family were close and welcoming, it was a great sadness to Sandra that her own daughter would not speak to Jack unless spoken to.
Julie was a law unto herself and she had taken against Jack from the start, goodness knows why. He was warm, friendly and eager to please. Julie was cold and distanced herself from them both. Even when Sandra broached the seriousness of her illness, Julie showed little interest in helping them both through the fear. What had she done wrong to make her own daughter so angry and dismissive? She felt the tears dripping again. This worry gave her sleepless nights trying to work out how this came about.