‘If we ever do.’
‘Oh, stop being such a misery! Have you got no sense of adventure?’ Helena was relieved when she saw a turning signposted to Kathikas. She took it. ‘It’ll be worth it when we get there, you’ll see.’
‘It’s not even near a beach. And I hate olives. And the Chandlers. Rupert’s an arseho—’
‘Alex, enough! If you can’t say anything positive, then just shut up and let me drive.’
Alex lapsed into a grumpy silence as Helena encouraged the Citroën up the steep incline, thinking what a shame it was that the plane had been delayed, landing them in Paphos just after the sun had set. By the time they’d cleared immigration and found their hire car, it had been dark. She’d been relishing the thought of making this journey up into the mountains, revisiting her vivid childhood memory and seeing it anew through the eyes of her own offspring.
But life often failed to live up to expectations, she thought, especially when it came to seminal memories. And she was aware that the summer she’d spent here at her godfather’s house when she was fifteen was sprinkled with historical fairy dust.
And however ridiculous, she needed Pandora to be as perfect as she remembered. Logically, she knew it couldn’t possibly be, that seeing it again might be akin to meeting a first love after twenty-four years: captured in the mind’s eye, glowing with the strength and beauty of youth, but in reality, greying and slowly disintegrating.
And she knew that was another possibility too . . .
Would he still be here?
Helena’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, and she pushed the thought firmly away.
The house, named Pandora, which had felt like a mansion back then, was bound to be smaller than she remembered. The antique furniture, shipped from England by Angus, her godfather, whilst he reigned supreme over the remnants of the British Army still stationed in Cyprus, had seemed exquisite, elegant, untouchable. The powder-blue damask sofas in the darkened drawing room – its shutters habitually closed to keep out the fading glare of the sun – the Georgian desk in the study where Angus sat every morning, slitting his letters open with a slim miniature sword, and the vast mahogany dining table whose smooth surface resembled a skating rink . . . all stood sentinel-like in her memory.
Pandora had been empty now for three years, since Angus had been forced back to England due to ill health. Complaining bitterly that the medical care in Cyprus was every bit as good, if not better than the National Health Service at home, even he had grudgingly admitted that the lack of a pair of reliable legs, and constant trips to a hospital forty-five minutes away did not make living up in a mountainside village particularly convenient.
He’d finally given up his fight to stay in his beloved Pandora, and had died six months ago of pneumonia and misery. An already fragile body which had spent the vast majority of its seventy-eight years in sub-tropical climes had always been unlikely to adjust to the unremitting damp greyness of a Scottish suburb.
He’d left everything to Helena, his goddaughter – including Pandora.
She had wept when she’d heard the news; tears tinged with guilt that she hadn’t acted on all those recent plans she’d made to visit him more often in his care home.
The clanging of her mobile phone from the depths of her handbag broke into her thoughts.
‘Get that, will you, darling?’ she said to Alex. ‘It’s probably Dad to see if we’ve arrived.’
Alex made the usual unsuccessful forage into his mother’s bag, fishing the mobile out a few moments after it had stopped ringing. He checked the call register. ‘It was Dad. Want me to call him back?’
‘No. We’ll do it when we get there.’
‘If we get there.’
‘Of course we will. I’m beginning to recognise this. We’re no more than ten minutes away now.’
‘Was Hari’s Tavern here when you were?’ enquired Alex as they passed a glowing neon palm tree in front of a garish restaurant, filled with slot machines and white plastic chairs.
‘No, but this is a new link road with lots of potential passing trade. There was little more than a rough track up to the village in my day.’
‘That place had Sky TV. Can we go one night?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Perhaps.’ Helena’s vision of balmy evenings spent on Pandora’s wonderful terrace overlooking the olive groves, drinking the locally produced wine and feasting on figs picked straight from the branch, had not included television or neon palm trees.
‘Mum, just how basic is this house we’re heading for? I mean, does it have electricity?’
‘Of course it does, silly.’ Helena prayed it had been switched on by the local woman who held the keys. ‘Look, we’re turning into the village now. Only a few more minutes and we’ll be there.’
‘’S’pose I could cycle back down to that bar,’ muttered Alex, ‘if I could get a bike.’
‘I cycled up to the village from the house almost every day.’
‘Was it a penny-farthing?’
‘Oh, very funny! It was a proper, old-fashioned upright bicycle with three gears and a basket on the front.’ Helena smiled as she remembered it. ‘I used to collect the bread from the bakery.’
‘Like the bike the witch rides in The Wizard of Oz as she cycles past Dorothy’s window?’
‘Exactly. Now, shush, I need to concentrate. We’ve come in from the other end of the street because of the new road, and I need to get my bearings.’
Ahead of her, Helena could see the lights of the village. She slowed down as the road began to narrow and the chalky gravel crunched under the tyres. Buildings began to appear, fashioned from creamy Cyprus stone, finally forming a continuous wall on either side of them.
‘Look, there’s the church, just up ahead.’ Helena indicated the building that had been the heartbeat of the small community of Kathikas. As they passed, she saw some youths hanging around a bench in the courtyard outside, their attention focused on the two dark-eyed young girls lolling idly on it. ‘This is the centre of the village.’
‘A veritable hotspot, obviously.’
‘Apparently, a couple of very good tavernas have opened up here in the past few years. And look, there’s the shop. They’ve extended it into the next house. They sell absolutely everything you could ever want.’
‘I’ll pop in to collect the latest All American Rejects CD, shall I?’
‘Oh Alex!’ Helena’s patience snapped. ‘I know you don’t want to be here, but for goodness’ sake, you haven’t even seen Pandora yet. At least give it a chance, for me, if not for yourself!’
‘Okay. Sorry, Mum, sorry.’
‘The village used to be very picturesque and from what I can see, it doesn’t seem to have changed that much,’ Helena said with relief. ‘But we can explore tomorrow.’
‘We’re going out of the village now, Mum,’ commented Alex nervously.
‘Yes. You can’t see it now, but on either side of you there are acres of grapevines. The pharaohs once used to ship wine from here to Egypt because it was so good. We turn here, I’m sure we do. Hold on tight. This road is pretty bouncy.’
As the rough gravel track wound down and through the vines, Helena changed down to first gear and switched the headlights to full beam to negotiate the treacherous pot-holes.
‘You biked up here every day?’ said Alex in surprise. ‘Wow! I’m amazed you didn’t end up in the grapes.’
‘I did sometimes, but you get to know where the worst patches are.’ Helena was strangely comforted by the fact that the potholes were just as bad as she remembered them. She’d been dreading tarmac.
‘Are we nearly there, Mummy?’ A sleepy voice came from the back seat. ‘It’s very bumpy.’
‘Yes, we are, darling. A few more seconds, literally.’
Yes, we are . . .
A mixture of excitement and trepidation coursed through her as they turned down a narrower track and the dark, solid silhouette of Pandora came into view. She drove the car thro
ugh the rusting wrought-iron gates, eternally open all those years ago, and by now almost certainly incapable of movement.
She brought the car to a halt and switched off the engine.
‘We’re here.’
There was no response from her two children. Glancing round, she saw Immy had fallen asleep again. Alex sat next to her, staring straight ahead.
‘We’ll leave Immy to sleep while we find the key,’ Helena suggested as she opened the door and a blast of warm night air assaulted her. Climbing out, she stood and breathed in the half-remembered potent smell of olive, grape and dust – a world away from tarmac roads and neon palm trees. Smell really was the most powerful of all the senses, she thought. It evoked a particular moment, an atmosphere, with pinpoint accuracy.
She refrained from asking Alex what he thought of the house, because there was nothing to think yet and she couldn’t bear a negative response. They were standing in the deep blackness at the back of Pandora, its shuttered windows closed and locked up like a garrison.
‘It’s awfully dark, Mum.’
‘I’ll put the headlights back on. Angelina said she’d leave the back door open.’ Helena reached inside the car and switched on the beam. Then she walked across the gravel to the door, Alex following closely behind her. The brass handle turned easily and she pushed the door open to fumble for a light switch. Finding it, she held her breath as she pressed it. The back hall was suddenly awash with light.
‘Thank goodness,’ she mumbled, opening another door and flicking a switch. ‘This is the kitchen.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’ Alex ambled through the large, airless room, which contained a sink unit, an ancient oven, a large wooden table and a Welsh dresser that filled an entire wall. ‘It’s pretty basic.’
‘Angus rarely came in here. His housekeeper did all the domestic stuff. I don’t think he cooked a meal in his entire life. This was very much a workstation, not the comfort zone that kitchens are these days.’
‘Where did he eat, then?’
‘Outside on the terrace, of course. Everyone does here.’ Helena turned on the tap. A dribble of water sputtered out reluctantly, then turned into a torrent.
‘There doesn’t seem to be a fridge,’ said Alex.
‘It’s in the pantry. Angus entertained here so often, and it was such a long drive to Paphos, he installed a cooling system inside the pantry itself too. And no, before you ask, there wasn’t a freezer here in those days. The door is just to your left. Go and check the fridge is still there, will you? Angelina did say she’d leave us some milk and bread.’
‘Sure.’
Alex wandered off and Helena, switching lights on as she went, found herself in the main hall at the front of the house. The worn stone floor, laid out in a chequerboard pattern, echoed beneath her feet. She looked up to the main staircase, the heavy curving banister built by skilled craftsmen from oak, which she remembered Angus had shipped over especially from England. Behind her stood a grandfather clock, sentry-like, but no longer ticking.
Time has stopped here, she mused to herself as she opened the door to the drawing room.
The blue damask sofas were covered in dust-sheets. She pulled one off and sank into downy softness. The fabric, though still immaculate and unstained, felt fragile beneath her fingers, as if its substance, but not its presence, had been gently worn away. Standing up, she walked across to one of the two sets of French windows that led outside to the front of the house. She drew back the wooden shutters that protected the room from the sun, unlocked the stiff iron handle and went out onto the terrace.
Alex found her a few seconds later, leaning on the balustrade at the edge of the terrace. ‘The fridge sounds like it’s got a bad attack of asthma,’ he said, ‘but there’s milk and eggs and bread in it. And we’ve definitely got enough of this, that’s for sure.’ He waggled a huge pink salami at her. Helena didn’t answer. He leant next to her. ‘Nice view,’ he added.
‘It’s spectacular, isn’t it?’ She smiled, pleased he liked it.
‘Are those tiny lights down there the coast?’
‘Yes. In the morning, you’ll be able to see the sea beyond it. And the olive groves and vineyards falling away below us into the valley, with the mountains on either side. There’s a gorgeous olive tree in the garden over there which, legend has it, is over four hundred years old.’
‘“Old” . . . like everything seems to be here.’ Alex looked down, then to his left and right. ‘It’s very, um, by itself, this place, isn’t it? I can’t see any other houses.’
‘I thought it might have become built up round here, like it has down along the coast, but it hasn’t.’ Helena turned to him. ‘Give me a hug, darling.’ She put her arms around him. ‘I’m so glad we’re here.’
‘Good. I’m glad you’re glad. Would you mind if we got Immy in now? I’m worried she’ll wake up, get frightened and wander off. And I’m starving.’
‘Let’s run upstairs and find a bedroom to put her in first. Then perhaps you could give me a hand carrying her upstairs.’
Helena led Alex back across the terrace, pausing under the vine-covered pergola that provided welcome shelter from the midday sun. The long, cast-iron table, its white paint flaking, the bulk of it covered with mouldering leaves shed from the vine above it, still stood forlornly beneath it.
‘This is where we ate every lunchtime and evening. And we all had to dress properly, too. No swimsuits or wet trunks allowed at Angus’ table, no matter how hot it was,’ she added.
‘You won’t make us lot do that, will you, Mum?’
Helena ruffled her son’s thick blond hair and kissed the top of his head. ‘I shall count myself lucky if I manage to get all of you to the table, never mind what you’re wearing. How times have changed,’ she sighed, then held out her hand to him. ‘Come on, let’s go upstairs and explore.’
It was almost midnight by the time Helena finally sat out on the small balcony that led from Angus’ bedroom. Immy was sleeping soundly on the vast mahogany bed inside. Helena had decided she’d move her tomorrow into one of the twin rooms, once she’d discovered where all the bedding was kept. Alex was along the corridor, lying on a bare mattress. He’d locked all the shutters to protect himself from mosquitoes, even though the resulting heat in his room was sauna-like in its intensity. Tonight, there wasn’t a whisper of wind.
Helena reached into her handbag, drew out her mobile and a battered packet of cigarettes. She put both on her lap and stared down at them. A cigarette first, she decided. She didn’t want the spell to be broken just yet. She knew William, her husband, wouldn’t mean to say anything that would jerk her back to reality, but the chances were that he would. And it wouldn’t be his fault either, because it made perfect sense to tell her whether the man had been in to fix the dishwasher and ask where she had hidden the bin bags because the garbage needed to go out for the bin collection tomorrow. He’d assume she’d be glad to hear he had everything under control.
And . . . she would be. Just not now . . .
Helena lit the cigarette, inhaled and wondered why there was something so sensual about smoking in the heat of a Mediterranean night. She’d taken her very first puff only yards away from where she now sat. At the time, she had guiltily relished the illegality of it. Twenty-four years on, she sat feeling equally guilty, wishing it was a habit she could finally break. Then, she’d been too young to smoke: now, at almost forty, she was too old. The thought made her smile. Her youth, encapsulated between the last time she had been in this house and smoked her first cigarette, and tonight.
Then, there had been so many dreams, the prospect of adulthood laid out before her. Whom would she love? Where would she live? How far would her talent take her? Would she be happy . . . ?
And now, most of those questions had been answered.
‘Please, let this holiday be as perfect as it can be,’ she whispered to the house, the moon and the stars. For the past few weeks she’d had a strange feeling of impending
doom which, try as she might, she simply hadn’t been able to shake off. Perhaps it was the fact that she was fast approaching a milestone birthday – or simply because she’d known she was returning here . . .
She could already feel Pandora’s magical atmosphere closing around her, as if the house was peeling away the protective layers and stripping her down to her very soul. Just as it had done the last time.
Stubbing the half-smoked cigarette out then throwing it into the night, she picked up her mobile and dialled her home number in England. William answered on the second ring. ‘Hello, darling, it’s me,’ she said.
‘You’ve arrived safely then?’ he asked, and Helena felt instantly comforted by the sound of his voice.
‘Yes. How are things at home?’
‘Fine. Yes, fine.’
‘How’s the three-year-old trainee terrorist?’ she asked with a smile.
‘Fred’s finally subsided, thank God. He’s very cross that you’ve all gone away and left him behind with his old dad.’
‘I miss him. Sort of.’ Helena gave a low chuckle. ‘But at least with only Alex and Immy here, I’ll have a chance to get the house organised before you two arrive.’
‘Is it habitable?’
‘I think so, yes, but I’ll be able to see better in the morning. The kitchen’s very basic.’
‘Talking of kitchens, the dishwasher man came today.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes. It’s fixed, but we might as well have bought a new one instead for the amount it cost.’
‘Oh dear.’ Helena suppressed a smile. ‘The bin bags are in the second drawer down to the left of the sink.’
‘I was going to ask you where they were kept. The dustmen come tomorrow, as you know. Ring me in the morning?’
‘I will. Big kiss to Fred and to you. Bye, darling.’
‘Bye. Sleep well.’
Helena sat a while longer looking up at the exquisite night sky – awash with a myriad of stars that seemed to shine so much more brightly here – and felt the onset of exhaustion replacing adrenaline. She slipped quietly inside and lay down on the bed next to Immy. And, for the first time in weeks, she fell asleep immediately.
The Olive Tree Page 2