Footprints in the Sand (Back-2-Back, Book 1)

by Chloe Rayban

  Back up at the taverna, I leaned into the kitchen and asked Stavros: ‘So where do I get bread from?’

  Stavros chewed and swallowed. He was having a little snack and a glass of ouzo to tide him over until his next meal. A frequent habit by the look of him. He didn’t offer me any, though.

  ‘My friend,’ he said, taking me by the shoulder. ‘You see that path, through the olive trees?’

  I nodded.

  ‘The bakery is that way. Just keep going and you get there.’

  ‘Right – OK.’

  As I set out, the sun was already low in the sky. I could see it was going to be an epic sunset. The heat of the day had reduced to around blood heat; the temperature had come to a perfect balance between the inside of my body and the outside. The air had that wonderful Greek smell, a mixture of thyme and pine with an odd dry sweetness underneath, faintly musky, like cat’s fur. I swung my arms loosely in it, savouring the sheer pleasure of the moment. The end of the day, a body tired but clean, a meal of some kind to look forward to and then tomorrow – more windsurfing. But something else was adding a background rosy glow to my sense of anticipation…

  Oh yes – the girl! Maybe she’d be there when I got back.

  I decided mentally to record this walk and add it to my select list of ‘Very Best Moments of my Life’. I’m making a kind of memory bank of these. So that later, one day when I’m past it, say, I can call them up and enjoy them all over again. Kind of a nice alternative to photography and you don’t have the bother of carrying a camera around with you.

  The bakery was quite a walk, a mile at least, but a mile with views that made me want the walk to last forever. The building was at the very edge of the next bay, the highest in the village. It was just a rough, whitewashed house like the others, and its faded blue washed door was propped open with a stone. It didn’t have a sign outside or anything. It didn’t need one. The delicious fresh bread smell that wafted out through the doorway served as sign and poster and TV commercial all in one.

  Inside, it was brightly whitewashed. The oven itself was the traditional kind – just a semi-circular hole cut into the thick wall which closed with a heavy iron door. The kind of oven they’d most probably baked bread in since Ancient Greece. It was open and I could feel the heat of the furnace on my face. There was a bustling movement from a further room and a woman came through carrying a set of iron bread pans filled with uncooked dough.

  ‘Kalispera,’ she called to me as she deftly slid the pans into the oven and slammed the door shut.

  She was a big woman, with a bosom of the kind that had always puzzled me – just one piece that went straight across like a massive shelf. I always wondered what women like this could be like, underneath.

  ‘What you want?’ she asked with a smile, catching up a stray curl of her dark hair and slipping it back into the net that must’ve been designed to keep her hair out of the way while she was baking. There was something almost flirtatious about the way she turned and held a hand out to her shelves of plump round golden loaves.

  ‘They’re for the taverna – the Paradisos?’ I said, as I’d been directed by Stavros.

  In an instant’s hesitation she looked me up and down. Immediately, I thought she must be wondering what had happened to the Albanian boy. It must have been his job to fetch the bread.

  ‘I’m new – I work for Stavros.’

  ‘Ah!’ she said and smiled again. ‘For Stavros.’

  She walked over to a further shelf where two loaves were waiting. I could tell by the way she walked that she was proud of her one-piece bust, and as she turned her back on me I noted that she had a one-piece bottom shelf to match. But what really caught my eye were her feet. Her legs kind of tapered off to tiny little feet. She was wearing shiny black shoes with dumpy heels and on the back of each heel there was a seductive little bow.

  She caught me looking and smiled again. She obviously thought I was impressed by her little feet. And I suppose I was, in a way – they looked far too small to support a woman of her size.

  She wrapped the bread in sheets of white paper and handed me the two loaves.

  ‘For Stavros,’ she said, showing off her dimples. She was really quite pretty for such a big woman.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Yassos,’ she called after me. It was the old Greek greeting, the equivalent of ‘God bless you’. Not something you’d ever hear in England these days.

  I took the path back, hugging the warm loaves to my chest. The smell was so tantalising, I was tempted to tear a piece off and eat it. But I didn’t want to push my luck on my first day.

  Walking back through the olive grove the crickets were making a terrific racket – quite an evening concert. The sun was really low now, it had turned the sky a flamingo pink and olive trees stood out against it – gnarled silhouettes like so many witches out of a Walt Disney movie.

  Quite suddenly, a shadow detached itself from the trees.

  ‘Pssht! Hey! English boy!’

  It was the Albanian. I came to a halt not knowing what to say. I wondered if he knew I’d got his job. Maybe he was thinking of attacking me. He was a skinny boy but he had plenty of muscle on him.

  I waited as he came towards me along the path.

  ‘What do you want?’ I asked. I was on my guard.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  He wasn’t going to attack me. He looked dejected, beaten. He stood there, avoiding my eyes.

  ‘Look,’ I started. ‘I feel really bad about what happened…’

  He stared at me uncomprehendingly. Maybe his English wasn’t so good.

  ‘I only came back to give Stavros the money I owed him,’ I started again.

  He still didn’t seem to understand. His eyes kept sliding back to the bag of bread I was carrying.

  Oh my God, I suddenly realised the boy was hungry. Without a job he probably hadn’t had anything to eat all day.

  I tore open the paper. To hell with Stavros. I broke off half of one of the loaves and handed it to him. He took the bread and just stood there holding it. He didn’t say thank you or anything. He was obviously too proud to eat it in front of me.

  I paused, uncertain about what to say next, and then I blurted out: ‘Look, if you want bread, come here again tomorrow, same time.’

  He shrugged as if to say ‘maybe’.

  Now I felt embarrassed, as if I’d offered charity. ‘OK. I’d better be off. See you.’ I started off again down the path.

  But he whispered again: ‘Pssht, English boy. You find my knife?’

  ‘Knife, no. What knife?’

  ‘Knife. In my room. You find it. Give me, yes?’

  ‘OK,’ I said, and turned and walked on.

  So he did know I’d got his job. He’d probably been watching me all day from some hiding place on the cliff. He wanted his knife – what for? Some chilling thoughts ran through my brain. Maybe he was planning to knife me in the back. Then I put them right out of my head. He was only a boy for God’s sake. I wondered where he was sleeping tonight and remembered my night in the chicken coop. Well, it wasn’t my problem. The nights weren’t that cold at this time of year. He’d be OK.

  But I still felt bad about it.

  My mind was still going over this awkward encounter as I approached the taverna. But that evening there was a brilliant sunset. The sky was putting on a royal command performance – all bloody behind a ridge of thin grey cloud. As I covered the last few hundred metres, I tried to put the boy out of my mind and regain a bit of the euphoric mood I’d had earlier.

  Beneath the vines the terrace was flooded with amber light and the chairs and tables cast long…

  Hang on – there was someone sitting at one of the tables.

  She was in silhouette. She was gorgeous, even better than I’d imagined her. She had one of those slightly turned up noses like that girl I fancied like crazy in Neighbours, and she must’ve just washed her hair because it was half-wet and clinging to her but stray st
rands of it were drying and curling…

  She turned and caught me looking at her.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, trying to sound super-casual.

  ‘Hello,’ she said back.

  I made my way down the last few steps and dumped the bread in the kitchen. Then I bolted into my room and shut the door. Had she been aware of me staring at her like some pervert? I scraped my fingers through my hair and wondered if it was still sticking up on end. Oh for some gel or something. How to make a cool impression? Not in my sagging salt-stained shorts for a start. I slid into my jeans and had a tentative sniff at my shirt. The shirt was not good news, but it was better than my T-shirt, which had been crying out for a wash for over a week. Did girls notice that sort of thing? Not if you didn’t get too close, maybe.

  Having repaired the worst of the damage I slipped into the kitchen. How should I break the ice? I cast around for inspiration – simple. I’d stroll out and ask if she wanted anything to drink. Then I’d open up the conversation…

  I grabbed a tray and swung out of the door.

  That was odd. Where’d she gone? The table was deserted.

  ‘Lucy… Lucy!’ It was a woman’s voice calling.

  The older woman must’ve just come back – she was leaning into their room looking for her.

  ‘Lucy’. Funny old name – sort of girly but it kind of suited her. ‘Lucy’. Yes, it definitely had a nice feel to it.

  I went back into the kitchen and observed them through the kitchen window.

  The girl must’ve walked out on the headland, to watch the sunset maybe. But she was back now and the two of them were hesitating, deciding which table to choose. They settled for one overlooking the harbour.

  ‘Lucy, what’s going on?’ I heard the older woman ask.

  I lost the rest because Stavros appeared in the kitchen window completely blotting out my view. He looked furious.

  ‘What happen to the bread?’ he asked, pointing at the massacred loaf.

  ‘Oh that. I got hungry,’ I lied. ‘You know fresh bread. It smelt so good.’

  ‘Now we not have enough for meals if peoples come. For brekfuss,’ he stormed.

  ‘OK, OK. I’ll go again in the morning,’ I said.

  ‘When you go get bread, you get bread – not eat bread,’ said Stavros sulkily. ‘Understand?’

  ‘Understand,’ I said. I was still straining to hear what was going on outside.

  ‘You go clear tables. Ask if they want drinkses.’

  ‘Right.’ I didn’t need asking twice.

  Now was my opportunity to make a favourable impression on the mother. Always a good move.

  I made my way over to their table and picked up the girl’s glass and an empty plate.

  ‘Hi,’ I said to the mother. ‘Welcome to the Paradisos. My name’s Ben. Can I get you anything?’

  I’d made my presence felt, I could tell by the way she half-smiled up at me. And I could tell that the girl ‘Lucy’ had noticed me too.

  ‘I’d love a glass of white wine. Chilled white wine?’ the mother asked.

  ‘Coming right up.’

  Chapter Seven

  So next morning, I faced the cross-country hike to the bakery again. I didn’t mind that much. I often used to go for an early morning run at home, before school. I tried to pace myself so that I could keep the same speed for more or less the whole run. My trainers weren’t up to much and I didn’t want them to give out altogether.

  When I reached the bakery I found the doorway was blocked by a queue of Greek women standing and chatting. Most of them were carrying big metal dishes full of what looked like dolmades or stew or stuffed tomatoes.

  The women nodded to me and let me overtake them and go in ahead to the counter. I stood inside enjoying the warm wholesome smell of the room – today it had some sort of sweet smell too, kind of like toffee or caramel. I couldn’t quite place it. The double-shelved bakery lady was taking one of the women’s metal dishes and giving her a ticket in return. She slid it into her oven while I waited to be served. And then I remembered something I’d read in Sprout’s guide book, about how Greek bakers used to let people cook their dinner in their ovens while they were cooling. I didn’t think that kind of thing went on any longer, but obviously it did in this village.

  The bakery lady was still wearing her funny little shoes with the bows. She turned and caught me looking at them again.

  ‘Three loaves, for Stavros please?’ I said.

  She smiled at me brightly. ‘He has guests?’

  ‘Yes. Two English people – a girl and her mother.’

  ‘Good,’ she said: ‘Say “Yassos” to Stavros – from Maria, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  And she added a little sweet sesame-topped bun to the loaves as she wrapped them.

  ‘For you,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you,’ I grinned.

  ‘Yassos.’

  ‘Yassos,’ I replied.

  I didn’t eat the bun, although I was pretty hungry. I wedged it in the cleft of the tree where I’d seen the Albanian boy. Maybe he’d find it, maybe he wouldn’t. But I’d get breakfast at the taverna anyway.

  Then I started to sprint again. Before it reached the taverna, the goat track crossed the square where the bus stopped. As I reached the top of the rise, I could see that the first morning bus was already standing there waiting.

  And then I saw – Oh no… The older woman had a suitcase with her and the girl had a backpack on. It was Lucy and her mother – they couldn’t be leaving. They’d only just arrived. What was going on?

  My heart sank as I heard the bus give a last warning hoot and start up. It lumbered across the square and then picked up speed as it turned the bend.

  I slowed to walking pace and made my way back into the taverna.

  Stavros was sitting at a table fiddling with his worry beads. He looked depressed. The door of the girl’s room was open and the key was in the lock.

  I slammed the bread down in the kitchen and came back, to be confronted with the remains of their breakfast left on a table outside. Stavros’ miserable packaged jam was untouched and the measly slivers of margarine had melted into greasy yellow pools.

  ‘Where have the English people gone?’ I asked.

  Stavros sighed and shrugged. He took a flat pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, shook one out and lit it. ‘They say they stay one week, maybe more. Then this morning, they get up – want leave – go – gone.’

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  He exhaled heavily. ‘You tell me?’

  ‘Maybe because you gave them such a horrible breakfast,’ I said bitterly. I felt furious with him. There was no need for him to be such a penny-pinching bastard.

  ‘What you mean?’

  ‘You could give them fresh bread, sweet buns. Maria has brilliant ones. Honey, good decent coffee, proper orange juice…’

  ‘You tell me how to run my business?’ Stavros flared up.

  ‘Yes, maybe I do,’ I said. I felt so pissed off I didn’t care at this point if he fired me.

  He got to his feet and towered over me.

  ‘I know why they leave,’ he roared. He pulled down an eye with his finger. ‘I see…’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘I see how you look at the girl with big cow eyes.’ He made a hilarious face like a sick cow, rolling his eyes. And then he leaned forward and pulled down his eye again. ‘And I see how the mother sees. And she no like it. That’s why they leave.’

  ‘Rubbish. I never even spoke to the girl.’ But I could feel my face going hot all the same.

  ‘And the girl. I see her when she look at you…’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘The mother, she sees. She say she leave because of the girl. Young peoples, she says, and she looks at me like this…’ Stavros gave another hilarious impression, this time of the woman raising her eyebrows suggestively.

  ‘Look, Stavros. We’re English. We don’t live in the Dark Ages like…’

  �
��Young peoples the same everywhere.’

  ‘Sure, but—’

  ‘Waiters and guests. Is not allowed.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No but. You listen to me. If peoples come here. You no talk to guests. You no look at guests. Specially girlses. You no do nothing with guests, never, OK? Understand?’

  Stavros had come out with so many negatives that I reckoned they made a positive – but I got his point.

  ‘Yeah well, OK, I guess so. But I still don’t think they left because of me.’

  ‘You do as I say or you finished, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘First thing you clear their room.’

  ‘Can’t I have breakfast first?’

  ‘Brekfuss?’

  ‘I’ve just run all the way to the bakery and back—’

  ‘You bring bread?’

  ‘It’s on the table… Oh, and Maria says “Yassos” to you.’

  ‘Maria?’

  ‘“Yassos.”’

  Stavros unfroze a little. He shrugged. ‘Brekfuss yes. Help yourself.’

  ‘Do you mind if I have an egg?’

  ‘You want ruin my business?’ he asked abruptly. But I caught a glint in his eye. I could see he wasn’t serious this time. ‘Egg yes, go on. But only one.’

  After breakfast I set to work on the room. I realised I’d never really cleaned a room before. Not properly. Occasionally, when my room had got into chaos-mode I’d stacked things up and vacuumed, under threats from Mum. But something told me Stavros wouldn’t have a Hoover. I helped myself to a broom from my ‘bedroom’ and made for their room, closing the door behind me, so that Stavros couldn’t witness my total lack of domestic know-how.

  The shutters were closed to keep out the heat of the day. With the door shut too, the room was in semi-darkness. It smelt slightly perfumy, a sweet spicy smell – of herbal shampoo, maybe. I went over to the bathroom. It was still warm and damp from the shower and a rim of white froth had been left on the blue tiled floor. I had an illicit thought at that point – of the shower washing the froth down from Lucy’s hair. Of how it must have slid down her body then on down those long sleek legs to end up washed into that little rim that still stood there like a ridge of white surf on a blue sea. I could almost feel the presence of the girl, behind me in the room.