‘Then I will send Georgios up to look at it,’ said Alexis. ‘He is the cousin of my wife, and a builder.’
‘You’re married?’ asked Alex, suddenly animated.
‘Sadly, no longer, Alex; my wife died many years ago. I will call Georgios now.’ Alexis produced a mobile from his pocket, dialled and spoke in fast Greek. He put the mobile down and smiled. ‘He will come here tonight, and maybe you will have a pool to swim in by the time your husband arrives.’
‘That would be wonderful,’ Helena said gratefully. ‘I was also wondering where I go in Paphos to buy a new fridge-freezer, an oven, a microwave . . . in fact, the whole nine yards, kitchen-wise. We have a heap of people arriving next week. Though I’m worried everything might take time to be delivered.’
‘No need for delivery. I have a transit van for transporting my wine to the hotels and restaurants in the area. I can take you, and we can bring the items back here ourselves.’
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?’
‘Not at all. It will be my pleasure, Helena.’
‘And would you know anyone in the village who could help me with the housekeeping? Perhaps do a little cooking?’
‘Of course. Angelina, who left you the keys, worked for the colonel in his last year here. She is available, I am sure, and she loves children. I will contact her for you. She will come to see you.’
‘Thank you, Alexis, you are a saviour,’ said Helena gratefully, sipping her tea. ‘Maybe I’ll ask her whether she’d like to do a little babysitting, too, so we can go out in the evenings sometimes.’
‘I can babysit, Mum,’ put in Alex.
‘Yes, I know you can, darling, thank you.’
‘And what about the structure of the house?’ enquired Alexis.
‘It looks all right to me.’ Helena shrugged. ‘But then, I’m hardly an expert.’
‘I will ask Georgios to look at it when he comes to see the pool. For example, the plumbing and the wiring . . . these things have not been touched for many years, and we must make sure they are safe.’
‘I know.’ Helena sighed. ‘It really is a Pandora’s Box. I hardly dare open it.’
‘You know of the legend at this house?’ Alexis directed the question to Alex.
‘No,’ he replied sulkily.
‘It is a good legend, not a bad one. It is said that anyone who comes to stay at Pandora for the first time will fall in love while he or she is staying under its roof.’
‘Really?’ Alex raised an eyebrow. ‘Does that apply to five-year-olds too? I noticed Immy looking rather dreamily at her toy lamb earlier today.’
‘Alex! Don’t be rude!’ Helena reprimanded him, her patience finally snapping.
‘Ah, he is a boy and afraid of love,’ Alexis said with an indulgent smile. ‘But when it comes, he will welcome it, as we all do. Now, I must go.’ He stood up, and Helena followed suit.
‘It is wonderful to see you, Helena,’ he said, kissing her warmly on both cheeks.
‘And you, Alexis.’
‘I will be here tomorrow morning at nine to go to Paphos, yes? Adio, Alex. Look after your mother.’
‘I always do,’ Alex grunted.
‘Goodbye.’ Alexis nodded at him and strode across the terrace and out of sight.
‘Really, Alex,’ Helena sighed at him in frustration, ‘do you have to be so obnoxious?’
‘I wasn’t, was I?’
‘Yes, you were, and you know it! Why didn’t you like him?’
‘How do you know I didn’t?’
‘Oh come on, Alex, you went out of your way to be contrary.’
‘Sorry, but I just don’t trust him. I’m going down to see the pool, if that’s okay with you.’
‘Fine.’
Helena watched her son amble off across the terrace, glad he had left her in peace for a while . . . that they had both left, these two males who had the same name and held court in her heart. As the shock of Alexis appearing began to subside, she thought how he had been little more than a boy back then, only a few years older than her son. Now he was a middle-aged man, but his essence remained unchanged.
Helena rubbed her nose thoughtfully. No one forgot their first love – everyone believing their own experience was unique, unrivalled in its power, passion and beauty. And of course, that first summer here with Alexis had stayed in her memory for twenty-four years, like a butterfly caught forever in amber.
They’d been so young . . . she almost sixteen, he almost eighteen, and still, he knew nothing of the aftermath of their relationship, or of her life since then. And how their love had changed her life.
A sudden lurch of fear clutched at Helena’s heart and she wondered again if coming back here was the worst possible thing she could have done. William would arrive in a matter of days, and she’d told him nothing about Alexis. What had been the point of him knowing about someone who was little more than a shadow from her past?
But Alexis was no longer a shadow. He was very much alive and real. And there was no escaping the fact that her past and present were about to collide.
Helena’s mobile rang just as she was placing supper in front of Alex and Immy.
‘Answer it, will you, Alex?’ she said as she lowered the precariously packed tray onto the terrace table.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Yeah, hi Dad. We’re all fine. Apart from the fact Mum is about to make me and Immy eat some pickled goats’ testicles in a fish-poo sauce, from the look of things. Enjoy your pizza while you can, that’s my advice. Yeah, I’ll pass you to Mum. Bye.’
Helena raised her eyebrows with a weary sigh as Alex passed the mobile to her. ‘Hi, darling. Everything okay? No, I’m not poisoning them. They’re trying feta cheese, hummus and taramasalata. How’s Fred?’ Helena balanced the mobile between shoulder and chin as she unloaded the tray. ‘Good. Have a word with Immy, and we’ll speak later. Okay, bye. It’s Daddy.’ Helena passed the mobile to her daughter and Immy took it.
‘Hi, Daddy . . . yes, I’m fine. Alex was dying this morning and Mummy and me saw a prince in a field while we were picking grapes but the police might have arrested us so we had to leave them behind but then we got them again on the way back and the prince’s daddy came to see us here and had a cup of tea and was really nice. And I had ketchup and chips for lunch and it’s very hot here and . . .’ Immy paused for breath and listened. ‘Yes, I love you too and miss you a bit. Okay, Daddy, see you soon.’ She made sucking noises down the line to indicate kisses and expertly pressed the right button to end the call. She looked down at her plate. ‘Alex is right. This looks yucky.’
Helena was still cringing at Immy’s conversation with her father. She put two pieces of pitta bread on her plate and spooned on some hummus. ‘Try it,’ she encouraged.
‘Can I please have ketchup with it, Mummy?’
‘No, you can’t.’ Helena fed a small piece of bread and hummus into Immy’s mouth. She waited whilst her daughter’s taste buds whirred into action and eventually, the food received a small nod of approval. ‘Good. I knew you’d like it.’
‘What’s the gloopy stuff made from?’ Immy enquired.
‘Chickpeas.’
‘Chick’s pees? Oooh,’ Immy said with a shudder. ‘You mean their wee-wee?’
‘Don’t be silly, Immy,’ countered Alex, who was yet to put anything in his own mouth. ‘Chickpeas are a kind of pea, they’re just not green. Sorry, Mum’ – Alex raised his hands in defeat – ‘I haven’t got my appetite back yet after this morning.’
‘Okay.’ Helena wasn’t in the mood for a battle. ‘So, it’s good news about the swimming pool, isn’t it? It should be filled by the time Daddy arrives. Here, have some taramasalata, Immy. And tomorrow in Paphos we can buy some sun-loungers and—’
‘YUCK-EE!’ Immy inelegantly spat the contents of her mouth out onto her plate.
‘Immy!’
‘I’m sorree, but that is wank!’
‘Rank, Immy. And don’t copy what I say, please,’ reprima
nded Alex, trying to remain straight-faced. ‘You’re only five.’
‘Yes, you are, and princesses do not use words like “rank”. Do they, Alex?’ Helena was also stifling laughter. ‘Now, while I call Daddy back, why doesn’t Alex take you upstairs and get you ready for bed? Then I’ll come and tell you one of your favourite stories?’
‘Okay. I want the one about when you were ballet-dancing in Vienna and a prince took you to his palace for a ball.’
‘It’s a deal,’ Helena agreed. ‘Go on, off you go.’
As her two children disappeared into the house, she picked up her mobile and dialled home.
‘Hello, darling,’ said William. ‘Supper a success?’
‘I’ll leave it to your imagination.’
‘Perhaps that’s best. So, good day?’
‘Eventful.’
‘Sounds like it. Who’s the prince Immy told me about?’
‘Oh, just the son of an old friend.’
‘Right.’ There was a pause. ‘Helena, darling,’ said William, slowly, ‘I want to ask you something.’
‘What?’
‘I . . . well, I’m not sure how to tell you this, but . . . it’s Chloë.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘Oh yes, she’s fine, apparently. Though I can only go on what her house-mistress at school tells me, as you know. However, I received a letter from her mother today.’
‘A letter? From Cecile? My goodness!’ Helena breathed. ‘She actually put pen to paper? That’s nothing short of a miracle for your ex-wife, isn’t it, darling?’
‘It is rather, but the thing is . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘She wants Chloë to fly over and spend some time with us in Cyprus.’
ALEX’S DIARY
11th July (continued)
This holiday, to quote my baby sister, gets ranker by the second.
Mosquitoes, heat, old houses in the middle of an arid field where they’ve never heard of broadband and a grape-stamper wanting to stamp himself all over my mother. Not to mention Jules, Sacha, Viola and Rupes – their Neanderthal, brain-dead son – coming to stay next week.
I wish I could start a campaign on behalf of all Kids of Parents Who Are Best Friends, to raise awareness for the kids’ plight. Just because the oldies used to share sweeties and secrets when they were younger, then moved on to alcohol and eventually potty-training together, does not necessarily mean that the children of Best Friends will feel the same about their counterpart offspring.
My heart always sinks when I hear those immortal words, ‘Alex, darling, the Chandlers are coming over. You will be nice to Rupes, won’t you?’
‘Well, yes,’ I reply, ‘I will try, Mother dearest.’ But when Rupes thumps me accidentally on purpose in the bollocks during a ‘friendly’ rugby tackle, or goes screaming to his mum accusing me of breaking his PSP when he dropped it on the floor originally and I stood on it because I didn’t know it was there, it can be pretty tough going.
Rupes is about the same age as me, which makes it really bad. And we’re chalk and cheese. He’s probably everything my stepfather William would like as a son: great at ballsports, jocular, popular . . . and a right evil bastard when no one else is looking. He’s also as thick as two short planks, thinks Homer is the star of The Simpsons and that’s why he’s famous for his philosophy.
We don’t have a lot in common, Rupes and me. He has a little sister called Viola, all red hair, freckles and rabbity teeth, with a complexion that’s so pale she fades into the background like a small ghost. Mum once told me she’s adopted. If I was the Chandlers, I’d have stuck out for a child that at least vaguely resembled my gene pool, but maybe Viola was all that was available at the time. And due to Rupes’ overpowering presence and her timidity, I can’t really say I know who she is.
To cap it all, Mum’s just informed me that my stepsister, Chloë, is coming to stay here too. I only remember her vaguely, because I haven’t seen her for six years. The BFH – Bitch From Hell – as she is affectionately known in our household, who is my stepdad’s ex-wife, stopped Chloë seeing her father when Mum got pregnant with Immy.
Poor Dad. He tried everything to see her, he really did. But the BFH had brainwashed Chloë into believing her father was the devil incarnate because he wouldn’t buy her ice creams that cost over a pound – thinking about it, he still won’t for us lot – and eventually, Dad had to give up. After numerous and bankrupting court cases to try and get access to her and losing, even the social worker said it was probably best, because Chloë was getting such a hard time from her mum if she ever mentioned her dad, and the battle was affecting her psychologically. So, for Chloë’s sake, he did. He doesn’t say much about it, but I know he misses her a lot. The nearest he gets to her is writing birthday and Christmas cards and a cheque to the very expensive boarding school she attends.
So . . . why her sudden reappearance?
Apparently, so Mum tells me, the BFH has got a boyfriend. Poor bloke. She is one scary woman. I admit to being terrified of her the one time I met her, because she is seriously, evilly mad and probably looks exceptionally good in black. She must have mixed something up in her cauldron to give to this poor boyfriend of hers, because he wants to take her away to the south of France for the summer. Apparently, he wants time with her by himself.
I hope his legs don’t end up on a plate with the other frogs, that’s all I can say.
Anyway, the upshot is, we get to have Chloë.
My mother looked distinctly nervous when she told me just now, but she was putting on a good show, saying how great it would be for Dad after all the years of not seeing his daughter. The most worrying thing of all was how she said it would be a bit of a squash, because Chloë should have her own room. And ‘people’ would have to share.
I know what she was insinuating.
I am sorry. But I absolutely will not, under any circumstances, share a room with Rupes. I will sleep in the bath or if necessary, outside or anywhere that isn’t with him. I can cope with having my personal space invaded during the day, as long as I know I can have it back at night.
So, Mother dearest, it’s a complete no-go.
She also said how we must make Chloë welcome, help her feel part of our family. Our whatever-is-the-opposite-of-nuclear family.
Christ. Dysfunctional or what? Someone should write a thesis on us. Or perhaps I should.
I lie on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, having nearly gassed myself with the Cypriot mosquito spray Mum got me from the shop – which is probably so full of banned pesticides, it will probably kill me into the bargain – and try to work out how many different bloodlines there are in our family.
The only thing is . . .
I wish I knew all of mine.
δ
Four
The following morning, Helena woke from a restless night’s sleep. Her mind had flitted from one unsettling thought to the next as the hours dragged slowly towards dawn. Even though she felt exhausted, she was grateful for the distraction of the trip to Paphos and her long shopping list.
Alexis arrived in his transit van at nine, and the four of them climbed onto the wide front seat. Immy was enchanted to be sitting up high in the front, but Helena saw Alex sulking silently, staring out of the window as they descended down the winding road from their hilltop eyrie. She’d given him the option of staying behind at Pandora and helping Georgios sort out the pool, but he’d insisted on coming. She was under no illusions as to why – she was under surveillance.
‘Wow, Mummy, it’s like being on a helter-skelter, isn’t it?’ Immy said as they zigzagged down the hairpin bends towards the coast.
‘You will not recognise Paphos town, Helena,’ commented Alexis as he drove. ‘It is no longer the quiet fishing port it once was.’
As they drove into the town, Helena was aghast at the seemingly endless stretch of neon signs glaring out from ugly concrete buildings along the roadside. Large billboards advertised everything
from luxury cars to timeshare apartments to nightclubs.
‘Look, Mummy! There’s McDonald’s! Can we go and get a cheeseburger and fries?’ said Immy longingly.
‘It is sad, yes?’ murmured Alexis, glancing at Helena.
‘Terribly,’ she agreed, spotting an English-style pub with a garish banner outside, announcing televised football and all-you-can-eat roast lunches every Sunday.
They parked outside a cavernous homeware superstore, and Helena realised Alexis was right: Paphos had exploded into the kind of shopping experience any British town would be proud to call its own.
‘Globalisation, I loathe it!’ she muttered as she climbed out.
Inside the store a few minutes later, Helena picked a lace tablecloth up from a pile and read the label of origin. ‘China,’ she remarked to Alexis. ‘Last time I was here, the lace was made by the local women and sold on market stalls. You offered them what you wanted to pay.’
‘You are just sad because we are no longer “quaint”. But we learned everything we know from you British during your occupation,’ Alexis added with an ironic smile.
Two hours later, with a token stop-off at McDonald’s to placate Immy, Alexis’ van – laden with white goods and a mountain of other items Helena had bought – arrived back at Pandora. The shopping spree had cost a small fortune, but she’d used some of the money from Angus’ bequest and hoped that her godfather would have approved of it being spent on refurbishing Pandora. It was certainly in need of updating.
Alex, who had hardly spoken a word all day, silently helped Alexis and his builder relative, Georgios, lug the boxes off the van and onto the wheeled trolley that Alexis had left at the house earlier.
As she spread pretty bedspreads, put cream silk lampshades on bases in place of fly-blown orange glass, and hung wispy pieces of voile at the bedroom windows, Helena reluctantly admitted to herself that there were some advantages to globalisation.
‘The freezer is switched on, the new oven in and the old one out, and the dishwasher and washing machine await a plumber, who will come tomorrow.’ Alexis had appeared at Helena’s bedroom door and stood watching her making up the old wooden bed with crisp, white cotton sheets. He surveyed the room and smiled. ‘Ah, a woman’s touch . . . it is irreplaceable.’
The Olive Tree Page 5